


Firebird

by greywash



Series: The Marriage Plot [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (author says flippantly), (while author feels not flippant at all), Additional Warnings Apply, As the glow-in-the-dark fridge magnets in our apartment currently say:, Body Horror, Companion playlist available, Consent Issues, Experimental Fiction, Experimental narration, F/M, FUN POV GAMES, Good and Evil, Hauntings, Identity, Inadvisable magical interactions, Let's call it AU after Season 3, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Memory, Multi, Names, Nonconsensual memory modification + supernatural possession + passionate fucking ≡ here be monsters, Probably in no way compatible with Season 4, See Story Notes for Warnings, Storytelling, Unreliable Memories, Violence, post-season 3, unreliable narrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-09-23 12:10:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 75,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17080115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: Eleven months after Fogg wipes the Questers, the Monster kidnaps Brian outside a New York City bookstore. Only—Brian isn't exactlynotQuentin—and the Monster isn't exactly not Eliot, either.





	1. get the stars out your eye, come and bring them to me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel (sort of) to "[spring sooner than the lark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901121)"; really it's more accurate to say that both that story, and this one, are companion-pieces-slash-prequels to a very long, about 2/3rds done story I've been writing in the background; both stories are basically written for an audience of one person, and that one person is me, so! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ _Un_ like the long story in this universe, which has approximately seventy-four thousand pairings, it's pretty safe to call this one unambiguously Eliot/Quentin (or at least—a person who is kind of Eliot/a person who is kind of Quentin—welp!). That said... even in this in many ways _very_ shippy Eliot/Quentin story, there's a lot of remembered and imagined sex, and most of it is essentially impossible to slap pairing tags on, because of the peculiarities of the point-of-view, so I didn't bother to try. But—yeah, if you're wondering, all that remembered/imagined sex is why there are M/F and Multi category tags on this pretty unambiguously Eliot/Quentin story.
> 
>  **Regarding Season 4** : This universe comes from October 2018-January 2019 (I won't finish by New Year's, but not too long after, I hope), and only uses as its basis S1-3 and [the text (only) of this rundown of character info that was released after SDCC](https://www.indiewire.com/2018/07/the-magicians-season-4-syfy-comic-con-1201986619/), because I wanted to know Julia and Kady's canonical memory potion persona names. Aside from that: since I try to avoid extra-/pre-canonical content as much as I can, to whatever other extent this overlaps or is consistent with other actual S4 pre-season content/trailers/interviews, it's just coincidence and not actual speculation.
> 
> Anyway, this demonstrates terrible judgement on my part, but this story has ten parts and I'm going to post it serially; the long sequel will go up all at once, ~~hopefully a few days after this is fully posted~~ ( **Correction 2019.01.22** : it's actually going to be a few weeks before the long story goes up, because I decided to push to get "Firebird" out before S4 started, so I haven't been doing as much routine work on the big story). Both this story and the sequel require **strong warnings for consent issues and disturbing content**. Louder for the people at the back: both this story and its sequel require **strong warnings for consent issues and disturbing content**. My full warning policy is [in my profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/profile#warnings) ( **please read it!** ), and you are always welcome to [privately email me](mailto:greywash@gmail.com) with more specific warning-related questions. Please give me at least 48 hours to respond. For complicated meta reasons, I almost never respond to comments in comments, but I do do my best to answer emails and other communications where it's possible for me to reply privately.
> 
> I've learned my lesson about trying to keep soundtrack links up long-term, so—no guarantees that these links are going to work forever, but for now, the chapter-by-chapter playlist, from which all chapter titles/the small semi-found-poetry tag contained in them are taken, lives on [Spotify](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No), or can be listened to track-by-track on YouTube and Soundcloud. Songs are linked from the chapter headers, and will also get added both to the in-story track list (which I've moved to the end notes because of AO3's character limits) and the Spotify playlist as chapters go up. Also, I'm linking to music videos but in most cases have not actually watched the video, just listened to the audio, so if you want the author-intended experience I recommend that, if you do go for the single-track links below, just open it, background-tab it, and ignore the visuals.

How could anybody have you,  
how could anybody have you and lose you,  
how could anybody have you and lose you and not lose their minds,  
too?

\- St. Vincent, "[Los Ageless](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9TlaYxoOO8)"

###  [1\. get the stars out your eye, come and bring them to me](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_yJYNF_Qas) [[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

hungry and sharp and hungry and cold hungry hungry hungr oh Yes, Quentin, it is: with. The dimples, and those brown eyes, finally! Could _smell_ you almost, and you could—could show it—lots of things, like—cards, yes yes please. Please. Please please please please please, don't be scared of me! Quentin with the dimples little-solid that fits just—just against. Its cold sharp chest, but. You don't remember it yet but you will, won't you, won't you. It can sh—how and yes, cards, oh, Quentin. Pulling. Away. Could—grab push bite _hungry_ but, but! Better. Better to. _Show_ you, of course. Because you—you like—magic tricks, it should. Show you. Hidden. Things, like—it, hiding from it—from. From us. Oh, our Quentin! Good. Good boy. Hide and seek find—and—and—to hug, I know, I know I want, want, want to—to put its arms around you hold you safe close tight safe close oh Quentin! Don't be scared. Don't, don't hide from us, Quentin, unless—unless we can—this is good! great! We can be good—we can play, can't we? You, you always play with us. Running—through the woods, didn't we. Didn't we. Didn't we. Didn't we. We could—we could, again! There's so much for us to do together. So much, Quentin, so much to—like—like _him_ , the monster who took you away from—from—from, or—no, better, _better_ , to show you how good we can be, yes? To—to team up! Fight evil! All the people—all the people who've hurt y—or, or, _or_ , who hurt—little children, or—or. Girls. Like they hurt—Jules: it can't wait, I can't wait it can't wait to get started on—on all the people who—who really deserve. Me. It. Us I mean I mean—you and me, you and me, you and me, Quentin. Our wrath. It can be a quest! A quest, yes, Quentin? A quest to—to save—. You like—so we could. Make it better, Quentin, yes? All the—the people who. Who deserve, _deserve_ it: yes, oh, don't be scared. Don't be scared, don't be scared of me, I'm not going to hurt you, could but—don't—don't want to— _hurt_ nope not. Not going to hurt, look, I—I always look don't I? looking—looking for you, wanting—found you! I found you and now. Now, now you're mine again, aren't you? My—my Q—Quentin, can't—couldn't wouldn't never ever never never going to this, this is gonna be—fun, isn't it? I think. I think anything is more fun when you. Don't, don't do it alone. And I'm your friend, Quentin, your friend and so we pull—pull you—to the _side_ , inside, to my side because I, I, I, I want, I don't, I don't want to, not going to, I—'m never going to—" _hurt_ you, Quentin—"

"Please," you say, stumbling back against the door in the white apartment and you—your eyes, "I don't—my name's not—" oh, oh no, no, don't, don't be scared, I don't— " _Quentin_ , I don't—" _want_ you to be scared of me, oh— _no_ —

"Shhhhhhhhh" hhhhhhh h hhh shh, Quentin, _please_ , shhh, shh—

"Where, where are we," you are gasping, pulli— _pulled_ away from me oh, no—I don't, hands up, don't we? Part, part of me—knows that— "what, what did you—we were—at the bookstore, what did—"

A puzzle! A riddle. I liked riddles when I was little: what has it got in its pockets, you know. Did you like books too? Yes. Yes, I remember. Fillory. Wanting Castle Whitespire, just like me.

"What do you think I did?" Smiling.

Your—head. Pressed back wide-eyed and that's—that's not—I don't want, I don't want to _hurt_ you—

"It was magic," I explain. Have to. Walls carpet floor windows, temperature dropping: snow tonight, yes, my friend, and you flinch back from me but we have to stay stay close stay hands staying hands its hands my. Human, human hands, which—which I put up, for safety, not—not to hurt. Don't hurt, I remember—hands up: I'm not going to hurt you. "Just—just a little bit, though," I explain, because—because you don't remember, and that—that must—be what is scary: "the easy kind," I explain, "just to move us, easy like—like—" reading? no. Starts with a "B", easy as budding bidding breeding— "bleeding." 

"Oh my fucking God," you say, unsteady; and then—

I have to catch you. Know—I know that, I _know_ that, catching your trembling shoulders your too-fast breath too-fast heart, not—not good for bodies, could—stop it or no but nope nope nope because that that would hurt I don't I don't I don't want to I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I want—you, your little warm—body hotwet face, _pulled_ , I—I remember—I remember that when you are shaking I am to—to touch you, just—so, tuck you in against my body and my body and my body and my body, Gods, my body— _remembers_ this, it remembers— _you_ , Q, oh, God, oh God, I don't want to hurt you. I'm not going to let I'm not going to hurt you. I'd never hurt you, I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to hurt you.

"I—" Shivering—you are shivering all—over, your—dropped coffee seeping into the, the hateful white— _rug_ , Jesus, fuck you, Ben fucking Harwood, with his shitty taste and his shitty apartment, God, I should've—burned this place to the ground you deserve—banked magma fires oil paints satin oceans of bed a crown, stupid—all just. Tissue-paper, burned through. You shake when you're sad and when you're sad I hold you don't I because I remember so we. Move. On, onto—onto the sofa, shhh, "Shh, it's okay, Quentin." Pressing. Holding you closer whispering, "It's okay, you're going to be—" as you curl—shaking—curled up against me held in between me and the sofa safe against me because I'm never, I'm not, I wouldn't, all I want is not to hurt you. 

"What." Your voice is—wrong. Thick. I want—I want to— _protect_ you, I—mouth oh your salt: _familiar_ , this—this tangled—this _pit_ , opening up in my— _heart_ , I didn't—

—I don't know what but—: 

"Who," you whisper.

 _Who_. Yours, Quentin.

"It's me." Breathing—breathing him in: I missed you. Gods, I fucking— _missed_ you, "I missed you," tasting—lemons, Everclear, ambrosia: the too-hot sweat-salty edge of your temple, tucked up shivering-safe in between me and the back of the sofa, and you—you remember, you must, you _remember_ , don't you? Don't you? Because you are doing it: your lovely mobile hands, unsteady, wrapping your arm up over my arm which is wrapped just around your middle and then— _pulling_ , pulling to hold—hold us closer together. 

Breathing. Deep.

I have a face, don't I. And I remember. I remember that it goes. Just here. Just against the tendersoft skin, just—

—just here. 

At the back of your neck.

You. Still shiver. Pressing— _back_ , back against me, I want to hold you so I. I can hold you. I can hold you keep you safe not hurt you, I want, I want, I want. I want— _this_ , don't I? Don't I. My—my hammering heart your hand. On my wrist. Because you want to. Your—hair, your hair is so short, now, but you—you still smell— 

—just.

Just right.

"Fucking— _furnace_ ," you say, "what are you—" 

An echo. Your voice—muddy. Fear, and—and _longing_ , too. Longing. Longing, I don't—I don't know what—what I want but I know that you want, I can hear it, and I want I want I want I want I want God this'll kill me as you push yourself back against me whispering: "You're—alwaysso—"

"Shh." My mouth wants to be on your skin so I put it on your skin and that, that, _that_ is a kiss: you're so cold. Clammy: oh, Quentin, _no_ , I want to keep you warm. "You're freezing." Shivering.

"What's happening?" you are asking. I am—kissing. This is—kissing. I am kissing the back of your neck just—just like my ribs want to and then you—laugh, an odd, not-quite-right sound, and I want—I want to make you laugh, for real, for—for your— _dimples_ , as you are asking, "Wh—where are we?"

"Apartment." Pressing—pressing _closer_ : oh, oh, oh it feels I didn't I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know that I would want—and you just—fit, so—breathing, breathing deep: "Are you okay?"

You don't answer right away. 

"Are you okay?" I want I want I want I want you to be okay.

"Mnh," you say, "panic attack," and then— _shift_ , curling up: so I tighten my arm around you.

"Don't, don't get up, please. I want to—to. To help you."

You—you rest. Your hand back down, against—against the back of my hand: oh— _Quentin_ —

"Why'm I," you say, "why do I—feel calmer," a little unsteadily. "When. I'm touching you."

 _God_. "Because it's me." Swallowing. "Because you know me, don't you?"

"I," you say.

Stop.

"Do you—remember yet," and blazing up tipping-tightening push in _devour_ I want—no, I want. I just want to hold you, I just—I just don't want to have to stop holding you. I just want. You to be okay. "Are you remember—ing."

Stop. No, stop. We're—

"I don't—I'm not," you whisper, "I'm not who you think—I should, I should be—I _should_ , I _was_ , I _was_ scared, I was fucking terrified of you."

" _Don't_ ": aching. "Don't, _please_ , Quentin, don't be scared of me, I want—I want to be. _Good_ , Quentin." Wanting, _wanting_ : "I want," I explain, "to take care of you." 

You shift. Curling—curling back. "You do," you whisper: your hand. Sliding—sliding down over my hand as you are "Don't you." pressing back warmclose against—against me, oh, oh, oh, oh oh—

Breathing. Deep. Twisting to look at me: your soft brown eyes, and your—mouthiwantiwantiwa nt I want you to trust me, I want you to feel safe with me, I want you to stay just here curled up against me letting me put my arm around you so I. Don't. Do. What my mouth wants to do.

Held closed I watch you lick your mouth, instead. You say, "Where're—where's my coat?"

 _No_. Far away. "Over there."

"Can you—I have." Your ribs lift, expand: oh, birds. "Uh, some pills," you explain, "in my—coat, can you get them, I need to—" and ; "Yes—" because— I want you I want to— _keep_ you so I—

Am sitting up up. Somehow. Cold all over again without you. Hand out—

"Do you," you are asking, "have a blanket," in a strange cold wobbling voice: and I have barely moved away from you but you are—going pale again, white and—and trembling, and I want I need to protect you so I call the duvet to us and tea to us and your coat to us with your medicine and I wrap you up, up, up with the coat over your shoulders and the duvet all around you and the tea in your hands and then touch. Your lovely pale, clammy face. You don't have enough hands for the tea and I don't want you to have more because then you wouldn't need me to help you so I balance the tea and you take a little plastic box out of your pocket and you fumble to get it open so I hold it for you while you take out an oblong white pill and then you swallow it and then you take the plastic box back and then you take the tea back and you swallow again, again while I rub my hands against your knees.

"Was that a spell?" you say, half a cup later; and then laugh: a harsh, wrong sound. Looking—looking down at your almost-empty cup. Lashes. "You—did you bring me a duvet and my Xanax with magic?" 

Squinting—down at me.

"I want to bring you lots of things," I explain.

"Okay," you say, a moment later. Very quietly. 

You're so cold, through your jeans. "I want to keep you warm." 

Big brown eyes. Blinking down at me. 

"I feel like—I _feel_ like I know you," you say, and then stop, swallowing. "My—body," you say, sounding embarrassed; and then you laugh.

"You know me," I am whispering, wanting. "You do know me."

You touch. My cheek.

"I do know you," you say, very slowly, "don't I."

" _Yes_ ," yes, of course, of course you do. "You're—you're my—friend," because I can't— _explain_ : reaching under the duvet and pulling you—in. Your—your little compact solid body and your—your stiff arms and your—your chin, bumping into my shoulder, oh, oh, oh, I want I want I want all those years and all I wanted was you: "Quentin," whispering. Into the lovely shell of your ear. "You can—we're going to—to do everything." Fierce. Bubbling—bubbling up: this wild, incendiary joy that I—I've never— _felt_ before—but, but I _have_ , haven't I? With you. And I am just. Opening a door a door a door it was closed it was inside me closed on this burbling-up overflowing feeling like I—like I could—like I am. Your sun, and this is—what I am remembering: "Everything we do, we do together, don't we?" I say, with. My heart, tight. Too—too _small_ for you, do hearts do that? "Don't we," I whisper; as, very slowly, your arm is coming up, and then the other. The teacup is pushing your hand off my back so I send it away. Your cheek, settling down against my shoulder. Your. Nose. Tucked into my throat.

I, I want—I want to—squeeze. Pulling you—in: and then your whole body—

—shudders. Unraveling. Coming—loose, heavy and hot and familiar, in my arms.

I can feel you blinking. Your eyelashes on my throat.

"Oh," you whisper. Against my skin, as you—pull. Me. 

— _close_.

And—

                                           — _oh_ —

" _Q_ " gasping. I could—I could put my mouth on your mouth like I put my mouth on your neck and that would be kissing, too, kissing like—like—like I want—like you used to—like _I_ used to, like _we_ used to, like we used to _kiss_ : kissing with our mouths together your mouth and my mouth and your mouth and my mouth over and over and over and over again with this hot painful wet-all-over-wanting that is filling me up nose throat mouth a monster shoving words-wanting out—of— _out_ of me, gasping, "Oh, baby, I _missed_ you," stunned. Stunned. It is stunned; as you rub your face against skin with your ribs lifting as you breathe in—in— _in_ —

"Hey," you ask. Rough: oh, I want. I want, I want you to always sound so good-familiar-hot like that—

—and then you ask: "What's your name?"

 

wh i    c         h

 

"I."                     w

 

 

hat 

                                           am

 

and there is a candle in darkness when you come for me. "My love," you call, but no—that wasn't—

— _me_ , that wasn't

                                               _you_

       , because you are warmsolidsafemine curling up with me with the kid's warm little body between us as he sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps, and I

                        touch

     the red

                                                    salty

_skin_

                                                          o f y  
                o

                                    u

 

 

r

                            f ace 

                                                                                     and there

                              is

 

 

 

 

                                    "—hey—"

 

                                                            "—can you—"                                                                     everywhere

_l i_

                                      _ght_ —

"—tell me—

                                                           —do you know your name?"

" _Quentin_ ," it says, desperate.

You touch his cheek. Gentle. "I thought I was Quentin," he says, hiding—half-hiding a dimple.

The sounds form in my heart but my mouth is a wall I cannot I cannot I— _have_ to I want, I want you to say my name, I wa 

                    n

t you to gasp: "                   

                                                             — _l_ —

"

sitting—sitting up in my lap in my arms, what did, what is, oh God I want I want to, I want to hear you, I want you to say it for a moment I had it I could have like 

your

                       ton

     g

                                         ue

in my

                                               _mouth_

what is what is why would that be why would your tongue go there but it does it does it _does_ and I am 

            digging 

my, my hands

                                                                       into

his long, coarse hair as he bent over me with his mouth open arms open heart open body open and it felt his hands sinking into him, _into_ him _oh—Quentin—_ fuck: push—ing sohard into the warmsoft trembling compact space of his body while he shivered and writhed against, against— _against him_ and Quentin's voice, his voice, his wobbly dazed overwhelmed wanting voice as

as he

as he moaned, "— _l_ —"

"—," it manages, he is managing—sound, nearly, as Brian is cupping his cheek with—with another goodwarmwanted familiar Quentin expression: _this is how he looks when he is worried about me_ , "—l—," when he says, _l o_ , or—or _El_ , "—el—" El — e l : _El o_ t—

"El?" Brian is asking, echoing,

and so desperate on his knees with his hands on Quentin's—Brian's— _Quentin_ 's cold knees through his jeans like his—cold, pull up the—quilt because he always—fucking falls asleep twelve fucking seconds after we—finish—finish?—because he's so, always so _high fucking maintenance_ , isn't he, needing— _needing_ it to—after we—hold him above me shivering and gasping _El, El, E iot_ oh, _God_ , so I, it, we are nodding he is nodding, nodding, and—and Que—Bri—nhhh, so cold, said—always says— _fucking furnace_ , curling backintoagainst squirming little spoon that—that _fits_ , that he—that he can wrap his arms around to pull close and kiss his bare soft shoulder as Quentin whispers, "Eliot—" and _fuck_ : he is trembling as he finally fits his mouth around "Eliot": and then gasps. Gasping. Gasping. Shaking all over: reaching up for Quentin's lovely familiar worried face shining above him as shivering Eliot manages, at last, to say, "I'm—Eliot. Eliot. Eliot W—Waugh."

Eliot. Eliot Waugh. Eliot—

—Waugh.

"Okay," Quentin says. _Bri_ —. Jesus, Eliot doesn't want to— _scare_ him, he has to—

"I'm sorry," Eliot manages, and then presses his face down to Brian's knees, oh God, baby, please. "You—": forced. Forced out of me. " _God_ ," gasping.

After a second, Brian's hand settles on the back of Eliot's head. His fingers slipping, soft into his hair. It is agonizingly, painfully familiar. The 'flu burning through Applevale and Ora and the baby and then Quentin and finally Eliot: and then just Quentin and Eliot, both still desperately ill, lying weak with the child sleeping between them and their knees interlaced and their foreheads touching as the midwife, Widow Tinker— _too mean for the 'flu, pet_ —was wrapping—wrapping her— _up_ to, to take her— _away_ —as Quentin's hand tightened in Eliot's hair and Eliot cupped his cheek as, silently, tears ran down Quentin's hot face. It had come so fast. They hadn't been ready for it. It was still summer, almost: the days so long and the nights so warm that they hadn't bothered to move the beds indoors, yet, to the too-small too-cramped cottage where last winter and the winter before that and the winter before that and the winter before that they had lain on opposite sides of the fire and Ora had met Eliot's eyes in the quivering orange light and dragged back Quentin's head, whispering, _Watch_ , and Eliot had watched. Hadn't he. He had watched, he had _watched_ : he had—watched— _something_ , he doesn't—he can't— _remember_ but he remembers that it had been a pit of wanting within him, what he had watched and doesn't remember and wants to remember and hates to remember because he remembers that he had watched, because Ora had told him to, so he had met Quentin's black eyes in the half-light as his wife had—had bent—had bent her head, for some reason, and and Eliot thought, in one dark, awful selfish wave of near-ecstatic longing: _I want him back, I want him_ back—: and he'd got him, hadn't he? And the deepest, hungriest parts of him—I want, I want, I want—hadn't even regretted the cost.

"You feel—hot," Quentin is saying. Brian. "Like, really hot." His hand cupping Eliot's cheek. "Are you—okay, you seem—"

"No," Eliot whispers, his body kneeling up barely—barely knowing what he is doing but it is in him it is _inside_ him it is a Library unfolding blowing open the lexicon of how to—how they—how he is supposed to— _push_ , pushing up reaching— _up_ to— _mouth_ his mouth his mouth his mouth his mouth I oh tasting that—that familiar soft scratchy-edged mouth and his— _tongue_ and _bursting_ : Christ I want to push him back peel him open put—put my body into his body my my my my mine my hands my heart to open—open him up, I want him to be open for me, I want him to—to want to open for me as his mouth is opening for me oh Gods are we are going to die? is this dying it must be dying it feels like dying doesn't it, to—to actually _kiss_ you, _this_ is kissing, _at fucking last_ : your arms around me, your mouth opening for me, your—warmhollow open body where I put—my— _breath_ : and you are breaking—

—breaking away.

Your forehead.

My forehead.

"I'm not okay," Eliot whispers. "You should—you should run."

Quentin's hand on Eliot's face. His—thumb, just—just there, on Eliot's aching cheekbone: "You're running a fever," Quentin is saying, very very slowly. From very far away. "You're so— _hot_ , you can't be—it can't be good for you, El."

"No," Eliot whispers, and rubs their noses together: Gods I am dying how can I this feeling how can I want— _more_ but I—he wants—he reaches up: _mouth_ , it is. This is. This is it, then. What I want?

"What if," Quentin is saying. Brian. _Brian_. "You went and laid down." Quiet. His hand sliding down to—to the back of—Eliot's neck, and "I could come with you," Brian is saying. He sounds—drugged, Christ, he _is_ drugged, isn't he? Eliot should—he doesn't want— "I could lie down with you," Quentin is saying, with—with his eyes huge and black and his hand sliding into the back of Eliot's collar and Eliot shivers up under his hand wanting—wanting his mouth his skin his warm bare body wound up with him in Ben Harwood's massive white-sheeted bed—to—to, I don't—I don't— _know_ , what do—es he, he, he, what does it want— "Let," Brian whispers, and then kisses him again: lips—parting hollowwanting honey-pooling at—at the core of him and God, I want to— _Eliot_ : "Let me take you," Quentin is—whispering, with—with his curled-up knuckles and Eliot's— _throat_ : "let's go to bed"; and Eliot kisses him again, delirious. I haven't—he didn't—I've never—what are we—but it is still somehow inside me unraveling as we touch him this is how he touches him this is how I want him, I— _know_ , I _know_ it: I know that I want to be pulling—pulling him— _down_ , Quentin's legs opening up around my thighs my arms his arms my mouth his— _hands_ knotting up in my hair, around—around the shirt buttons as Eliot—

"I'm—feverish," he remembers. He doesn't— "I don't—mm—want you to—to get sick again," he manages, as they kiss; and Quentin moans into his mouth and drags his shirt open sliding—sliding his knuckles— _down_ and I close my eyes and open them tumbling Quentin back onto Ben Harwood's huge white sea of a bed. "Fuck," you're gasping, "nngh— _Eliot_ —" and Eliot licks back into his wet open-panting mouth as Quentin pushes Eliot's shirt off his shoulders and curls his knuckles in his chest hair and— _pulls_ oh, Gods, I have to, Eliot has to—to lift Quentin's little squirming hips to drag at his—jeans to shove up his—his stupid cardigan, Gods, I love you, press—press his mouth to that little soft fuzzy belly and curl his— _tongue_ into—into his musky hot navel while Quentin yanks off his shirt as Eliot— _kisses_ as Quentin moans writhing up underneath him to shove down his jeans and his—oh, god, _tighty whities_ , _Brian_ , not Quentin, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —but then— _bare_ Quentin fitting—fitting justso up into—into Eliot's— _hand_ , fuck—fuck I have to— _fuck_ : rubbing, rubbing my cheek against you mouth against you kissing the sweat-salty crease between your torso and thigh as Eliot—forces—my—hand—through the up-down turning-flick- _pull_ of a—a _spell_ , is it, a little—Brakebills automaton parody of magic called—it is called—I know that it is called—Westheimer 1 and I know it, it is a thing that I know because—because I want to, I want to do it, I need to do it, because I want to keep you, I need to keep you safe, I want to keep you safe safe safe safe safe— 

"What," you are asking, "what's—"

"Condom," Eliot manages, which is—a thing "magic, I don'—t—" for keeping Quentin safe I want "— _have_ any, I've never—should've, I want—" and Quentin moans and jerks his thickheavy cock up into the drooling-hollow cavern of Eliot's mouth.

God.

His taste.

but I didn't, I didn't— _know_ : that shiveringly thickheavy wanting-warm smell of him, that is filling—filling me up, I didn't know the way you— _moan_ : Christ I missed this your hand in my hair just-twisting nudging me down down down Gods I've never, I want—

Bursting bomb-bright at the base of his brain: "Can I," Eliot asks, "I want—I want to put my tongue in you": an idea—an idea Eliot—just had, he didn't—he didn't know we could do that and arching underneath him with his—hips fitting—into Eliot's hands: "I want," kissing: that soft silky little hollow of skin, just above his pubic hair, as Quentin is kicking his heel up over Eliot's shoulders and moaning shaking with love for him Eliot pushes his legs up and licks him: taut furred musky-salt, and then tonguing over the tight clenching knot of him, Eliot gives him a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

"Oh," Quentin says, unsteady, "my God," with that thrilling-sharp whip of want snapping out through Eliot's body and then: " _El_ —"

and roaring-up wanting kissing, kissing him open, licking the—the darksaltclinging clench of his magma-hot body fitting—fitting a finger justinto him to—to hold his place while Eliot puts his mouth back around the head of Quentin's dripping cock as Quentin works it at the base, moaning, "El—El— _Eliot_ , I need—" and it didn't didn't didn't— _do_ this didn't—want this didn't know anything didn't need anything like I need you want you _want_ you so I have to do it with my tongue and my fingers because I, I've never, but, but I don't, I won't ever want to do it with magic, to miss—the tight-slippery flutter of your body trying to fuck down onto my tongue and my fingers, I want, I need to—tangling my hand on your hand Gods, what is, what— _is_ this, as I—press my face to your hip and your belly and your nipple and your m- _mouth_ oh God _Quentin_ I need, I need, "I need you," you are gasping, "Please— _Eliot_ —" and it is pouring out of you into me into you as I—fit—but I— _can't_ , I'll hurt you, I can't hurt you, _I don't want to hurt you_ — "This is going to be," Eliot manages, "a little—weird—" and then manages hands shaking to remember the twist and the drag and the openingpalm and his hand wettening as Quentin gasps, "Oh, Jesus—" and Eliot sinks all the way into him in one slick, incandescent slide: "That's—" Quentin laughs, ragged. "You have—magical lube?"

"Yeah," Eliot gasps, and fucks shuddering-deep into him, as slowly—painfully slowly—as he can: "I can't—I don't want, I can't—it doesn't, does it hurt, baby?"

" _No_ ," Quentin groans, and then, "come _on_ — _Eliot_ — _harder_ —"

"Oh, thank God," Eliot gasps, and fucks into him so hard the headboard slams into the wall. Again. Again. Again. Kissing—kissing him, biting at his little warm-wet mouth as you arch up shivering pulling at my hair as my body curves around you like, like, like a shell a cave a shelter keep you, keep you, _keep_ you, keep you safe, mine mine mine I want, I want to live inside you I could but no if I did then how would I, how would I fit into you like this scraping our skins raw together while you moan for me into me kissing— _kissing_ me, God, I've wanted to kiss you for centuries, I didn't, I didn't _know_ : that little. Ragged-edged moan, _Christ_ your hands your hand my hand I want, I want— "I want you to feel good," gasping: and your voice shakes as you say, "Just—just keep—doing _that_ , oh, God— _El_ —" and your voice cracks, running out into a single long, shattering moan as you shudder all over getting—hotter, _tighter_ , spilling over—our _fingers_ , wethot like you feel— _inside_ i didn't, it didn't, it didn't _know_ , oh— _Gods_ —

Cradling.

Cradling you.

I want—

"I want to keep going," Eliot blurts out, and then— _bites_ , his own mouth, tasting— _blood_ , oh, Gods, it tastes— _good_ , it tastes like— _Quentin_ —

"Do it," Quentin gasps, still trembling, arching— _up_ —

"I don't," Eliot says, "I don't want, I don't want to hurt you," I want—I just— _want_ you—

"Slow," Quentin gasps, "Just go—slow—" and then— _moves_ : and sliding halfway out of him Eliot can—feel that—that same hollow ravenous hunger opening up in him, as he presses. His mouth. To Quentin's mouth.

"Okay?" Eliot gasps. Shuddering. Shuddering: oh, God, your body, sinking—back— _in_ and Eliot groans and "Yeah, shh," Quentin whispers, "it's—good. Just. Keep going slow."

"I want to go slow," Eliot says, unsteady; and—and _drags_ —his cock out of the hotwettight clench of him and then slow—slow— _slow_ : he sinks back in, oh Gods, shiveringupallover, bare on a glacier again: "Is it." Swallowing. "Is it okay?"

"Yeah." Quentin strokes his hand through Eliot's hair. "It feels. _Good_ , Christ, what'm I doing?"

"Fucking?" Eliot supplies; and Quentin laughs and pulls Eliot's mouth back to his mouth with his whole body a lax-hot sweaty welcoming— _cloud_ : he could sink into him, Eliot thinks. He could—just roll, roll his hips, rubbing his come into his hand, spend days nudging his cock up into the spell-slick hot clench of his body: but they don't do that, Eliot remembers. They like—he likes it Quentin likes it—when Eliot does it. By hand.

"Next time I want to do it with my fingers," Eliot whispers, and humming Quentin winds up his fingers with Eliot's slick fingers between their bellies, sucking on Eliot's tongue. "Next time," Eliot promises, "I want to lick you open for hours. I want—" To put my whole hand in you: shivering. Shivering. "I want to see how many of my fingers," Eliot says, "you want inside of you."

"Next time," Quentin says, half-dreamy, utterly certain; and then. A kiss. "Next time is—uh, _now_ , I think." Pulling—pulling Eliot's hand back down to his cock, still half-hard, hardening again, the solidhot weight of it fitting into their fingers. "So—next-next time, maybe," Quentin breathes, and then sighs, arching up against him. 

"Yeah?" Eliot kisses him, just—just at the corner.

"Yeah," Quentin licks at Eliot's mouth, so Eliot has to kiss him again, properly.

"I could." Laughing, almost: a bubbling-over hot-achy feeling like—like he'd felt after he'd killed them, or—or just before: despairing Eliot says, "I could stop, if—you wanted me to, I want to—"; but Quentin makes a high, hot half-moaning hum into his mouth and says, "If you pull out now," into kisses, "I think—I'll set something on fire, probably—so—"

"I don't want to pull out." Eliot wants—I don't want. To be out.

Quentin is nodding, tangling—his hand, their hands, my hair and I have to—to get—get all the way back inside you again so you gasp, mouth open. Dark-eyed, bare slivers of brown around huge pupils, blinking—blinking up at Eliot, in the shadowy-hot space between—

"You're going to come inside me, aren't you," Quentin says, in that low-hot certain dazed voice; and I don't— _know_ , but it wants—Eliot wants—

"I want to," he gasps, and presses—presses his mouth down, kissing: he wants—he wants Quentin to—

"You're going to," Quentin says, tongue thick; and then moans and arches up against him—kissing— "Fuck, this is— _crazy_ , what are we—"

"I don't want to hurt you," Eliot gasps, shuddering, but that deep hungry part of him is howling, _yes, mine, yes,_ mine. I want you to, I want you to arch up under me gasping, "I—I want you to," Quentin gasps, "I want—to _feel_ you—Eliot— _come_ —" and shuddering Eliot _shoves_ : burying himself inside Quentin's body as he comes, and comes, and comes.

"Oh," Quentin gasps, and his voice breaks, " _God_ ": his hand working Eliot's hand feverishly on his still come-sticky hot cock while trembling Eliot kisses him, and kisses him, and— _kisses_ — "Fuck—I can— _feel_ —"

"Wet," Eliot whispers, "you feel—wet"; and Quentin groans, shuddering all over, his whole body tight-tight-tightening as he works his—fist—Eliot kisses his jaw—his throat—and moaning clamping down vise-tight Quentin comes, his whole body jerking: a hot, agonizing pain around Eliot still oversensitive inside him: and, fuck, Eliot. _Wants_ , he wants to—

—to—

Eliot pulls him close tighthotsweaty against him. Tucking him. In.

"Jesus," Quentin gasps. Wrapping his trembling arms around Eliot's back: _Gods_. God. Eliot presses his face in against Quentin's face, and Quentin kisses him. Again.

Again.

And again.

"I was." Quentin laughs, and then rubs at his face, tucking—tucking his hair back, fuck, _Brian_. Brian, blinking up at him. "I really was going to take a nap with you, I swear, I didn't—I wasn't planning to—" 

After a moment, Brian's mouth quirks: a half a dimple. "I mean," he asks. Still breathless. "Does this happen to you a lot?"

"No," I say. "Never—never before." A hot, twisted-up longing in its throat. Eliot touches his cheek. "Are you okay, Brian?"

"I—yeah." Brian swallows, blinking. "I didn't—hey. I thought my name was Quentin."

Eliot swallows, feeling—sick. I don't, I don't want, I don't want to hurt you. "I know—I thought your name was Quentin," Eliot says; and then, held against the icy black edge of his grief, he says, "if you want me to call you Brian, I want to call you Brian."

Brian touches his cheek. 

After a minute, he says, "What—um," quiet. "Did we—I'm guessing, uh. We've fucked. Before, I mean."

Eliot swallows. "Can I," he asks, quiet; and beneath him, Brian nods. Eliot shifts, careful, pulling—out: Brian winces anyway, I don't want, I don't want to hurt, I want, I want to take _care_ of you. He could—tell him, he thinks. He could—explain, he could just—just say—but there is a twisting volcanic surge of bruise-purple power bubbling up from somewhere—

—somewhere down around by his liver and—

"Yes," Eliot manages, and then—then he can't—he can't say anything else.

Oh. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God oh God what if, what if I can't, I can't make myself— _Christ_ how can it, _God_ , fuck Ben fucking Harwood, fuck, _fuck_ — _Quentin_ —

Beneath him Brian is taking a deep, slow breath. Their ribs. Touch. "Was this—this must've been. A couple years ago. Yeah?"

A couple of years ago. Yes, that. But also. "Yeah," Eliot says, after a moment. Petting Brian's cheek as Brian lies still sweaty-hot and trembling underneath him: Brian, who he's never touched before. "It was—um. 2016," Eliot says. "I think."

Brian frowns. Looking—

"No, it must've been—earlier than that," he says.

"Yes," Eliot agrees. Eliot doesn't want—he doesn't want to _hurt_ him, he can't—he wants, he wants he wants I want to—to _keep him safe_. "Could be," Eliot says, "could've been—years ago," and then the purplish magma of someone else's magic twists up up up curls his tongue silent so he—so he—so he just—curls his body back as close as he can get it, tucking Quentin— _Brian_ —

—in.

"I was high, wasn't I," Brian says, sounding rueful; and Eliot closes his eyes.

"No. Maybe. Yes. We—both were—drunk, sort of." He presses his face against Quentin's warm cheek. "The first time, definitely."

"I'm sorry," Brian says, wriggling. Closer: _Gods_ , how can I— _live_ without this, I want I want I want—Eliot— _wants_ — "I'm—Christ, I was such a fuckup," Brian sighs. "I didn't—I didn't think I made a habit out of giving people fake names, but I. Probably did, didn't I. When I was. Such a trainwreck."

"You're perfect," Eliot says. Thick. "You were—you're. My perfect thing."

After a minute, Brian says, " _God_ "; and then sighs.

"I'm sorry," Eliot says, "I don't—I don't want to scare you, that's not—that came out wrong, I don't want—"

"It's okay, it's okay." Brian drags his knuckles, soft, across Eliot's cheek. "It's okay, Eliot, I know you're—not well, I'm guessing—fuck. This is just. So weird. Fuck."

Eliot swallows. "Did you want to do it?" he asks, very quietly. Because he can't—

Brian blinks, very, very slow. "I," he says, and then stops.

Fuck. It didn't I didn't i di d n otknow how to push—push— _push_ could push into you over and over biting your—soft mouth your throat your—belly cock thighs to tasting—blood your bursting-blacksalt blood and, and pin, pin you down and—pushpushpushpush _push_ until you— _scream_ —

"I don't want to hurt you," Eliot gasps, all in a rush; "I don't, I don't, I don't want to _make_ you—"

—and then shuddering, he presses his face down against Brian's sweaty throat.

"You didn't hurt me," Brian says, very quietly, and then brushes his knuckles against Eliot's temple: oh, Gods. _Quentin_.

"Maybe," Eliot says, around the tarry, sickening blackness bubbling up in him, "you should go. You—you should go, Brian, I—I think I'm—sick, I should. I should. I don't want to—I want you to be— _okay_ , maybe—maybe you should go."

Brian pets his hand through Eliot's sweat-sticky hair. Lifting his head up: God, Eliot can barely look at him.

"Maybe," Brian says, quiet. He strokes: his thumb, fingers curling. "Do you want me to go?"

"I want you to be safe," Eliot says, tongue thick; and Brian smiles. Familiar. Soft: _God_ , he's—he's so _like_ him, those fucking—

— _dimples_.

"Hey. It's okay. Lie down." Brian cups Eliot's cheek, tucking himself. _Close_ : helpless Eliot closes his eyes; sinking into the dizzying-warm drowning smell of their bodies together.

"I think you need some rest," Brian is saying. Slow. Oddly far away. I've never, I haven't, I've never _done_ this before, I didn't—I didn't _know_ —but he strokes a thumb just under Eliot's eyelid, where the skin is hot and thin and fragile and it is so—so _familiar_ how, how can it be, how can it be so _familiar_ , to feel so—so _tired_ with you, so safelovedknown and _tired_ and God, I'm tired, I'm—so tired it is making me tremble all over tucked warm and close against you the way we used to—the way we always—on all those millennia-ago late-autumn nights when you would crawl up into my bed at Brakebills, back before I'd ever kissed you. Before I knew—before I knew anything about kissing. About kissing you. Before I knew that what I wanted was to kiss you.

Quentin whispers, "Go to sleep, Eliot." 

Petting—my cheek. 

It nods, and buries his face in your chest.


	2. I'll behave, if you let me stay

###  [2\. I'll behave, if you let me stay](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A17rVbNTtrg) [[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

There is—it is like a spider, a little—a little black curling uncurling thing: shiny-dark and crawling, all its—legs and it is bigger and bigger and bigger, as it unfolds itself to be—all nineteen eyes and twenty legs, rearing up to hiss at me dripping poison from its arm-length fangs but it is, it is, just—just a little thing, a little squirmy furry desperate squeaking snarling thing as I put—my hands on it and—crunchy. She was crunchy, when Eliot ate her, Kinuna the Shadow-bringer: and Ora scolded him, but we still. Played. In the Castle which grew empty and Eliot was still—so _hungry_ even with Kinuna squirming around and around and around inside him so then he reached his hand out the window to drink the volcano and Kinuna didn't wriggle so much, after that. Was sick for a week, though. And the others—hid, after that, and I wanted—I want more I want more I want more: more time more food more cock more water more long rough hair heavy breath hot— _tongue_ of him shivering against me and in the deep dark well of dreaming Eliot puts his arms apart and gathers them to him, his brothers and sisters, friends and enemies, husbands and wives: the Rockfish Hag and Kenneth the Deceiver, whom he had kissed, once, twice, three times, at the swings outside Whiteland Elementary School years, oh, centuries before he'd strangled him: clawing at his face, his heels drumming on Blackspire's cold stone floors, and then put its hands on his neck to tear out his voicebox. It had tasted like meat. Needed salt. I didn't. I didn't know it could be like. _That_ , I didn't— _remember_ , that I could've—pressed myself into their selves sunk my fists into their throats their blood bursting in my mouth I want I want Iwant I wa n t tt I would've, if I had known I would have had them, every one, I would've— _loved_ them, I could, I could love them, I could, I could, I _could_ , I could lie down with them in the cottage and gather them to me, their—long hair warm bodies little—dimples, showing, nearly always, under the quilt we made oh, Quentin, let me: let me put—put your mouth on me my mouth on you so—so hotwet tight and shivering as I—pet—at—you and you are—opening for me, always—since the first time always—wanting and I am—pushing you open and open and opener until I can fit my whole arm into you, open up—your hips your ribs, to wear you like a coat, and then we'd be— _closer_ —

—and Eliot jerks awake.

Heart pounding, rabbitish and furious, and Quentin's warm hand settling against his hair. 

Brian's. Not Quentin's. I don't, I don't want, I don't want to scare you.

Eliot takes a deep, slow breath.

"Hey," Brian says, quiet. "Nightmare?"

"Uh—." Eliot's mouth is still—the furred crunchy-bitter taste of her, squirming. All the way down. "Sort of." 

Brian hums. Stroking Eliot's hair: Eliot shivers, and presses his face back into Brian's hip, breathing in. He smells good. Herby, like Ben's shampoo; over a little hint of sweat; musk; come, maybe, too: like even in an apartment in Greenwich Village, he can't be bothered to get all the way clean. At some point, he must've gotten up to shower and wipe Eliot off, and apparently he'd also stolen a pair of Ben Harwood's flannel pajama bottoms. Eliot curls up closer to him, throwing his leg over him, just so he can feel—shivering, deliciously—that Brian had to roll them up about six times so they didn't come down over his feet. "You're wearing my clothes." Breathing. Deep.

Brian pets his hair. "I sort of figured you wouldn't mind."

Eliot struggles up to sitting. He's still naked. Brian is, very blatantly, checking him out, and still— _blushing_ about it: oh, God, this boy. 

"No," Eliot says. "I don't mind." He is touching Brian's shoulder. Brian is already leaning towards him, looking up at him, wide-eyed, and Eliot's hand slots into place around the back of his neck.

Electric.

Their mouths brush—oh, tongue. Pressing—his warm open—hollow— _mouth_ andthetasteofhisbodycrackingopenhisblood and Eliot jerks back, heart pounding wanting wanting to—bite not bite not hurt I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you I don't want to hurt you: as Brian blinks at him, the damp ends of his hair just-curling around his warm face.

"Hey." Eliot laughs, a little. "I—are you. Hungry, or—"

Brian smiles at him, soft-faced. "You've been asleep," he says, "for—um, almost sixteen hours. I ate all your chips."

"That's." Eliot swallows. "Cool, I—I didn't know I had chips."

"They were pretty stale," Brian agrees; and Eliot rubs at his face, and slides over to the edge of the bed. "You, um. You have eggs," Brian says, and when Eliot looks back, he shrugs a shoulder. "I went through your fridge. You have eggs, dated tomorrow. And bread in the freezer."

Eliot licks over his bottom lip. Jam, peaches and plums. Butter, when they could get it. "Jam?" he asks; and Brian smiles at him, with Quentin's mouth.

"About half a jar," he says. "Apricot."

Eliot's back is prickling. Ben, he is thinking. _Ben_ , that fucking—coked-up Goldman Sachs douchebag who talked about—about destroying the little bitches in his fantasy football league, about all the pussy he'd wrecked. Ben Harwood worked eighty-hour weeks and ate apricot jam in an apartment with no personality and had never so much as taken a girl's shirt off: Eliot wraps up the thought in pumice and bile and—swallows— 

"I think—I think I need to take a shower," Eliot says, and then pushes up. "I'll, um—you should eat."

"Hey," Brian says, quiet, and reaches over, catching his wrist. "What's wrong? You seem—do you." Flushing: a deep, entrancing red. "Regret it, or—"

"No," Eliot says.

He doesn't. He doesn't—what is, he doesn't—when has he— _regretted_ anything (a sharp cutslash, a—body, blond hair warm—bloody _face_ —) but he doesn't—know what, he wants—he wants to—pull Quentin with him, wrap him up with him, push him into the shower hold him up push his fingers into him his cock into him and—and hold—hold him close, as he—doesn't want, doesn't want to—

"El": and Christ: his. His chest, as Quentin slides over to the edge of the bed, touching—his hip, his—belly, and—and "It's okay, Eliot," you are whispering, "it's going to be" as I—bend down to—fit my mouth to you and just—for an instant— _kiss_ —

Brian makes a little, soft noise. His knuckles. Against Eliot's—

Oh, God, _Quentin_.

Eliot catches Brian's wrist.

Brian rocks back down onto his heels. Blinking. Up.

"There are things I want to tell you that I can't tell you," Eliot says, thick. "About. Magic."

"Magic," Brian echoes, and then laughs.

His face. Happy, warm familiar, _dimples_ , and then—

" _Magic_ ," he repeats, his smile. Slipping. "You. You brought us here with—"

"Yes," Eliot says, quietly.

"And you said that before." Brian licks over his bottom lip. "You. You told me that before."

"Yes," Eliot says; and then watches the flush rise up slow-slow-slow in Brian's cheeks.

"You came up to me in the bookstore and you—you asked me to show you card tricks," Brian says, very low and very fast, "you—followed me and then you—you grabbed. You—took—"

"Brian," Eliot whispers, chest tight, and Brian shakes his head, hard.

"You took me by the wrist," Brian says, "and you—you used magic to. To take me here. And you—you _talked_ to me, and—and I—I was scared of you. I was, I _was_ , I was _terrified_ , but you—"

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut tight, and Brian puts his hands on Eliot's face.

"But you _touched_ me, and it—it changed," Brian says. "You put your arms around me it was—it felt _different_ , it didn't—I felt like—like you were protecting me and I wasn't, I wasn't scared of you anymore, because—because _this is magic_ , isn't it, because I—because I'm under a spell."

"That could be the spell," Eliot says, very quietly.

"But it isn't," Brian says.

He is standing very close and very warm and his eyes are very, very sharp.

"It could be a spell, but it isn't," Brian says. "You used magic to bring us here. You used magic to—to bring me my coat and your duvet and my meds, you didn't get up you stayed with me but you still made me—milky tea with honey just, just the way I like it, and—and then you used magic to take us into your bed and you used magic to, to keep me safe and you used magic to get me wet and—"

Eliot pulls back, " _Brian_ —," feeling—sick; I don't, I don't want to, I don't want to hurt you, but Brian grabs at his shoulders. Holding him. 

Fast. 

His huge brown eyes. "You have done," Brian says, unsteady, "a _lot_ of magic on me, _I know what it feels like_ , Eliot, and it—that wasn't. _That_ wasn't a spell. I was afraid of you and then I wasn't and _that part wasn't a spell_ , was it." 

He takes a breath. 

"Not. That part," Brian says, unsteady.

_No_ , Eliot wants to say, and can't.

Brian is watching him, with Quentin's face. "This is the spell," Brian says, very quietly. "That I keep. Forgetting."

Eliot cups Brian's warm cheek, and he kisses his forehead, when Brian closes his eyes.

"I don't want to forget," Brian whispers. 

"No." Eliot kisses him again. "Me neither": and Brian sighs, and wraps his arms around Eliot's waist.

His body is very warm and very solid. His head fits—

—just. Just under Eliot's chin.

"I dreamt about hurting you," Eliot says, after a minute. His tongue feels thick. "I don't—I don't want to—"

"Oh—shh, it's okay, Eliot. It was a dream. Besides, you—you were fucking burning up, you're still—you still feel feverish, I think." 

Feverish. Ill. "Yeah," Eliot says. Brian squeezes; and Eliot turns his face down, breathing in the smell of Quentin's hair. Brian's. 

"It was just a dream," Brian repeats, muffled. 

It wasn't. "Yeah," Eliot says; and Brian nods.

"I'm okay." Blinking, Brian lifts up his chin. "See?"

Eliot does see. God, his little face. "Yeah." Eliot swallows, petting his cheek. "Maybe—maybe you should go."

"Trying to get rid of me again?" Brian smiles up at him, and Eliot touches his chin. Breathing—breathing in: I—want I want you to be— 

"This isn't," Eliot says, and then closes his eyes. 

It is, he thinks, extraordinarily like picking his way through a strange bedroom, in absolute darkness: "You," he says, meaning _Brian_ , "must have," meaning— _shouldn't_ , and yet also _probably do_ , "things," meaning _pets_ , or _friends_ , or, or— _children_ , "that need you," meaning _me_ : a harsh, spine-scraping shiver, running the whole length of his body, but Brian is already shivering up towards him, his eyes wide and dark and Eliot has to—not, not look at him, not look at him not want him I want him I want him as it blurts out, "What're we doing, baby, what're you doing with me?"; forcing open his blurred and wavering eyes, as Brian is eeling his shoulder up under Eliot's slipping hand and Eliot is bending down helpless, his mouth on Brian's mouth, open—opening up again: _hot_. His hands tangling up in—in Q— _Brian's_ too-short hair but, but of course, of course Quentin will stay, of course Quentin wants to stay: "I do know," Brian is saying, thick; and then _kissing_ him: and Eliot—

— _opens_ , and—

"I know, I do know," Brian manages, "I know this isn't—rational, but _fuck_ ," gasped: pushing—close—; and Eliot— _pulls_ , his littlewarmsolidcompact—body—

—and then pulls his mouth back, barely. His. Forehead, Q's forehead: his stubble-rough cheek, hot in Eliot's hand.

"I don't want you to regret anything," Eliot says, thick; and Quentin presses a soft, half-open kiss to Eliot's ravenous mouth; and Eliot—

—'s hands. In knots.

"You wanted a shower," Brian says, and then pulls, barely, back. Blinking: his blown-open black eyes: helpless Eliot touches his mouth.

Drops. His hand.

"Do you want to go?" Eliot asks: aching, I want, I want, all over, I want you to—

"I want your cock in my mouth," Brian mutters, and then purses his lips, and lets out a breath. He squints up at Eliot. "Is this a _spell_?" he asks: his hands up, two fingers on each hand, curl-curl. Air quotes, Eliot remembers. Sarcasm. God, he's such a nerd: Eliot wants to eat him alive.

He takes a step back, heart pounding. "Three spells," he says. "The—the way I brought us here. And, um. The uh—" His tongue feels. Heavy, he doesn't— _remember_ : "to keep you safe," Eliot says: Westheimer 1, of course. "Westheimer 1," he says, chest loosening. "And Westheimer 139. For." That thing we did. "Sex," Eliot says: a hotdarkwanting shiver running out through all of his feathers.

"Okaaay," Brian says, very slowly. "I meant—I think I just want to—uh, climb on your dick, pretty much, which is—not. Not a spell, probably."

"It's not a spell," Eliot whispers, and then kisses him again.

Part of him. This single far-away helium-high part of him is thinking: _you shouldn't do this_ , but all the rest of him finally has his arms around Quentin for the first time in his life and he is thinking: _but I want to_ ; and the balloon bursts, its corpse floating flaccidly away. Eliot has a hand on Quentin's burning bare back under the thermal he stole from Ben Harwood's dresser and the other on his little round ass, pulling—pulling him up, until he is standing up on his tiptoes clinging to Eliot's shoulders while Eliot's tongue slips against his, wet and hot and slick, brain is blazing with a electric black-yellow bruise of desire: wanting—wanting Quentin under him, on top of him, in his arms in his lap, pressed bare all over against him, wanting—wanting to sink back into him, fingers inside him, tongue to heart to tongue, rubbing—rubbing their faces together until they forget their own names, remember—remembering. Everything else.

"Fuck," Quentin groans, and then pulls back. "Maybe we're both under a spell," he says. _Brian_ says; and then laughs.

Stepping back.

_Yes_ , Eliot thinks.

_Yes_. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, and it is so easy: yyy—, like yours, yesterday, young; the "e" from energy and Eliot and enough; and there are esses all over: beds books spells sunshine peaches starlings Blackspire—sweetheart: like you used to call me: y-e-s.

Eliot can't say anything.

He is. Swallowing. Heart pounding all over. There is a bruise-purple knot between his ribs and his hip to pull at his mouth and his tongue and his—his skin is prickling up: cold, he knows. Naked, still, so—cold, outside the covers; and Brian is saying, "You were going to shower," and then reaching up to cup his cheek. 

"Yes," Eliot manages, at last.

Brian nods. "If you do, are you going to pass out?"

"Pass out," Eliot echoes.

"You know," Brian says; and—of course, in the entryway. When he—got so pale, and then—wavered, like a candle-flame. Brian was going to make us breakfast.

"Oh," Eliot says. "No. No, I—I think. I'm okay, mostly?"

"I mean—I could come with you," Brian says, "if you need me to": and Eliot swallows: his heart a low, fast throb in his throat.

"If you come with me I'm. Definitely going to fuck you in the shower."

Brian laughs, broken; and winds his arms around him: warm and I could. _Eat_ you, I could—

"I want you to make us breakfast, baby," Eliot whispers. Ducking. Down: his mouth taking. The long way around.

Brian shivers, his eyebrow brushing Eliot's mouth; and Eliot has to.

Pull back. Putting. A hand, shaking, against his mouth.

"Go shower," Brian says, and Eliot nods, and stumbles into Ben Harwood's arctic, slate-and-marble bathroom, with his tasteful grey towels.

With the water on full hot he feels—clearer, almost. More. In focus. God, he—how _could_ he've—because Quentin. Brian. Brian doesn't remember. Eliot turns his face up into the spray with his tongue all over the half-remembered dream-taste of Quentin's blood, and doesn't. Doesn't open his mouth. His heart is hammering, hard hard hard: _fuck_ , he feels like—like that awful first-year bender where he'd surfaced to Ora's mouth pushing a tornado into his lungs, her little hard hands slamming an earthquake into his four cracked ribs as he gulped for that first searing swallow of air; her face above him streaked with terror and mascara and tears. God. Eliot presses his hands to his aching face. Sixteen hours? Fuck, how much sleep does this body _need_? He hasn't even wanted to in weeks. 

He wipes at the mirror. Staring—staring at himself: his rough face, his burning eyes and remembers—

Quentin. On, on the—the foot of his bed in Castle Blackspire—no. At. At Brakebills, his bed at Brakebills: head arms shoulders thrown back, as Eliot rubbed—rubbed his face—up— _oh—_ fuck—, Quentin had gasped; and then shivered all over and put his hands over his face. And Eliot had—he'd let—he'd let Quentin pull him up and—and pet, pet at—the edge of his—his cheeks his chin, pushing—pushing two fingers against the edge of his mouth so he could— _suck_ as Quentin whispered: _you—did you shave for me_? And Ben had—

Eliot had—

Ben had said—

He braces his palms on the edge of the sink, heart pounding.

Then, hands shaking, he opens Ben fucking Harwood's medicine cabinet, to take out Ben fucking Harwood's razor and Ben fucking Harwood's sandalwood shave soap and the stupid fucking cup that Ben fucking Harwood had bought to—to fucking—to fucking shave so that—so that, what? so that he wouldn't leave marks all over the delicate fucking inner thighs of the goddamned love of Eliot's life? Eliot slams the cabinet shut, so it shatters, so he has to spin time back five seconds so the bathroom's not all over glass, which is. Tedious, and annoying, and always makes him hungry, so—fuck Ben fucking Harwood, anyway. He's dead, and Eliot ate him.

Smooth-shaven and mostly dressed, ten minutes later, Eliot Waugh perches on one of the hideous grey kitchen stools at his bar counter, next to—to Brian, who is poking at some scrambled eggs with a fork, looking—scruffy, and tired, and pinched. Eliot's hand goes to the back of his neck without thought; but Quentin just turns towards him, head bent, eyes closed, lashes fluttering—and. fuck. Eliot rubs his thumb over the long taut muscle leading down to his shoulders, and Brian shivers, and Eliot drops his hand.

"What if we are under a spell?" Eliot asks; and Brian huffs, and shakes his head, and says, "Come on, you know magic's not—really—"; and then, hand trembling, sticks his fork back into his eggs, as the color is draining out of his face. 

Eliot. Pulls. Brian tipping in towards him: pressing his cold face against the side of Eliot's neck. 

"Magic's real," Brian says, unsteady; and Eliot says, "Yeah," and turns to kiss his forehead.

"Why can't I," Brian says, "why do I keep— _forgetting_ , I—"; and then twists his face up: mouth opening Eliot's mouth, his— _tongue_ and Eliot kisses him slow and wet and open, squeezing the back of his neck. Brian shivers, pressing their foreheads together. "Magic's real," he says again. Almost like he believes it, this time. 

"Yeah," Eliot whispers. Rubbing: Brian shivers up under his hand.

"And you're, what." Brian laughs. "A—a wizard, or—"

—and—

—and Eliot isn't—

— _is_ he, not—not _that_ , am I: not weak tendersoft sweetfragrant, _lovely_ , like _you_ , baby: not a softwarm clever-fingered—magician, oh—fuck, not—not— 

"Not," Eliot manages, "exactly"; and then pulls back. Scrubbing at his face. "God." He laughs. "I think I—I think I need to eat."

Brian nods, turning: his mouth drags against the inside of Eliot's wrist, and it takes every once of willpower Eliot has ever, ever managed to muster not to—to just—shove their plates aside and boost Brian up onto the counter and slither down to his knees, tugging his too-big flannel PJs down off of Quentin's bare feet. Instead he jabs his fork into his eggs, shoveling up a too-big mouthful, and—and the first taste of food in his mouth is—God. _God_ : everything, everything he—half-remembers, bursting into full, technicolor bloom: cold nights and colder mornings and Quentin's delicious fresh bread and shitty rubbery scrambled eggs, before Eliot took over the cooking; that first fucking psychopathic chicken, who Quentin had carried back from the village in a basket on one hot summer day and then boosted up, two-handed, for Eliot's approval, as though he'd say no after Quentin had spent six hours levitating thatch for the Bronsons' new roof to secretly trade for her for Eliot's maybe-birthday: _Henrietta_ , Quentin had explained, _because she's a—_ ; and Eliot had had to kiss him even though Quentin, city boy that he was, clearly had _no idea_ what he was getting them into, and Eliot couldn't be having with puns that terrible that close to dinner. Henrietta had spent three years laying only when it pleased her and pecking the hell out of Eliot's fingers whenever it was his turn to check for the eggs, and then they made her into soup at that fifth scant and hungry Midwinter, after her grandaughters—all with equally terrible personalities, but better laying habits—had mostly taken over providing them with both eggs and the occasional young cock for roasting; and Eliot had enjoyed every stringy, too-tough bite of his meager revenge.

"I'm not much of a cook," Brian says, apologetic; and Eliot's chest tears: an awful, 40-grit laugh.

"They taste great," he says, with perfect, excruciating honesty. "I haven't eaten in. A while. Can I have the jam?"

Brian ducks his head, half-smiling, and passes him the jam.

Eliot goes through all the eggs Brian had scraped onto his plate and then all of Brian's mostly-neglected helping, too, while Brian eats four slices of toast with apricot jam. Then Eliot gets up to make a second batch of eggs, which Brian accepts with pink cheeks: "These," he says, mouth full, "are way better": while Eliot is swallowing, _I know, baby, cooking was my job_ : I don't want to, I don't want to scare you.

"What do you remember?" he asks, instead; and Brian squints at him. 

"About—"

"About—you," Eliot says, and then swallows. "About your life"; and Brian bends back over his plate, and takes another bite of eggs.

"I don't know how to answer that," Brian says. "I mean—'tell me about yourself' is, like, the worst job interview question ever, you know, but—I'm, uh, I just finished my Ph.D., I'm—I live in Queens, I—"

He stops, flushing.

"In philosophy," Eliot says, after a second; and Brian lifts his head.

"What?"

"Your Ph.D.," he says. "In philosophy?"

"No," Brian says, very slowly. "Art history": and Eliot—

—Eliot has a—

—a sudden, dizzying sensation of vertigo: his world tipping sideways, his hand on Quentin's hand on the bank of the river, Quentin's—neck, under his— _mouth_ —

"Oh," Eliot says, and then barks a half a laugh. "I, uh—for some reason I thought you. Were studying—" no, 2015— "going to study. Philosophy."

Brian huffs, and rubs his face. "I think I probably told you a lot of bullshit," he says, sounding embarrassed. "If this was, uh. 2015."

"Okay," Eliot says, and then reaches for his coffee. "Why?" He takes a sip. "What happened in 2015?"

Brian's quiet for a minute. "My parents died," he says, finally; and— _Christ_ : Eliot's hand flies up: squeezing, the bending back of Brian's bowed neck. 

"Shit." Eliot takes a breath. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's—it's okay," Brian says, and then sighs. "Or—no, it's not okay, but. It is what it is."

"What happened?" Eliot asks. Rubbing. Gentle: his thumb through Brian's soft hair. "Or, I mean—if you don't want to talk about it—"

"No, it's—it was car accident." Brian takes a breath, slow. Lets it out. "Followed by, you know, six months of getting fucked up and—well, _you_ didn't forget," he says; and then laughs; and rubs at his face. "I was—I'd just finished undergrad. Early and everything, I'd—half-killed myself trying to. And then—"

He shrugs, shoulders hunching.

"My mom and I were really close," he says, very quietly.

His mom. His _mom_ , _God_ : Eliot runs his hand down Brian's spine, and Brian bends his head. Eyes. Closed. He looks—older, and tired, and sad. Eliot wants—he just wants to—to _help_ , reaching out, trying to— _feel_ past the edge of Manhattan, for a little house in suburban New Jersey, for—

—for—

—I don't remember.

Jersey?

"What if," Eliot says, and then—forgets. What he's saying, what was he—going to— _do_ , he was—

"Benjamin Harwood," Brian says, very quietly; and all the vast sprawling tendrils of Eliot's consciousness pull in—in—in: to this pristine, too-cold high-ceilinged apartment in Greenwich Village, to Brian's warm breathing blood-beating beautiful body, perched just—just at his side.

Curving in. Towards him.

"A bad name," Eliot says, "where did you—"

"You were asleep," Brian says, "for a really long time": and then stretches across the counter for Ben Harwood's thin leather wallet, perched, listing, at the far edge. Eliot hadn't noticed it. Brian flips it open, poking the side with the transparent ID sleeve towards him, as though Eliot doesn't know what he'll see: his own face, looking hungover and cross; and printed neatly at its side: _HARWOOD, BENJAMIN ROWAN, 8 W 9TH ST #5, NEW YORK, NY 10011, Sex: M, Height: 6'3", Eyes: BRO, DOB: 03/21/1992, Expires: 03/21/2027_. Brian presses a finger to the last: "First: 'Rowan'—I mean, honestly," he says, and then, more quietly: "happy birthday."

Eliot's hands twitch.

"I don't remember you," Brian says, very quietly, "but I saw that, and I thought, _oh, right, it's his birthday tomorrow_ , and then I thought, _that isn't his name_. Which—seems irrational? I mean." He takes a breath. "Either—either this is your ID, in which case you gave me a fake name, which—fair, I mean, I probably deserved that, but—but I don't think you _did_ give me a fake name; so that means this is a fake ID, in which case not only is that not your name but there's no reason to think that that _is_ your birthday, in which case—I mean, I _know_ that, why would you have an ID with your real birthday, but not your real name? Why would anyone? But I still—and I have a really hard time believing you're not twenty-one, so it's probably a fake ID because you're a con artist or an art thief or a mobster, or something, which—I guess that would m-make some sense with the, the kidnapping and the—"

Eliot kisses him, quick, hard—but _soft_ , softening all at once because helpless he wants it to be soft Eliot wants it to be soft and Brian wants it to be soft and—and _Quentin_ wants it to be soft, oh, God, he _is_ Quentin, Quentin is _in there_ : Quentin—remembers his birthday and knows his real name and is climbing up half-into Eliot's lap half-unbalancing them both on Ben Harwood's rickety kitchen stools while Eliot wraps his arms around him and—

— _pulls_ —

—thunking back onto the sofa with Quentin hot-hot-heavy above him biting at—at his mouth, at his jaw, at his throat while Eliot tugs at his borrowed thermal, clumsy with longing, while Quentin— _fuck_ —twists his wrist and his fingers all by instinct and every button between them comes undone at once. "Q—" Eliot's hand in his hair, pulling—pulling—: "baby, _please_ —"; and Quentin makes a hot, shattered little sound and plasters their bodies together, his ribs and his face and Eliot's throat and their bellies pressed so close together Eliot thinks he could just—

— _sink_ —

"It _is_ your birthday, isn't it," Quentin says. Low. Unsteady. 

Eliot swallows. "Yeah," he says, very quietly. Brian's will be July 20th, he knows: he doesn't even have to look.

"It's your birthday," Quentin says, "but—but then I think: you have another birthday too, in—in—August? for some reason? and I—I _know_ that, I _know_ it, and I know you're—you're not twenty-six, you're—older, a _lot_ older, and your name isn't Benjamin Harwood, I—I _know_ that, Eliot, because calling you Eliot feels— _right_ , and your birthday being today feels _right_ , and you're not—Benjamin fucking Harwood, _God_ , you're—E-Eliot Waugh, and—"

"Yeah." Eliot presses their foreheads together. "Yeah, I am."

"—and this is a spell," Quentin says, unsteady, and then takes a deep, quavering breath. "This is a _spell_ , isn't it, I didn't—I didn't _forget_ you, did I? I wasn't—I didn't fucking—get high and meet—someone who makes me feel like all my body fits together with all my heart for the first time in my life and then just—just _forget_ about you, someone _took_ you from me— _Eliot_ —"

"Shh." He kisses Quentin's mouth. "It's okay, I swear, we're going to—we're gonna fix it, okay? I promise. I _promise_."

"What's happening," Quentin whispers. Hot on his face. " _Eliot_. What's happening to me, _please_."

_There was a potion_ , Eliot wants to say. _He made you take it. He made us both take it with knives at our throats and then he took us all back to Brakebills and we made love in someone else's—awful—fucking— _bed_ and he—he took—they _took _something— _someone_ , they took—Ora? But Ora died fifty years ago in Fillory, so they took—they took—Gods, they took _Ora _, fuck! they_ took _her, didn't they?_ : but when Eliot's mouth moves, no sound comes out. There is—there is still—that tiny, persistent tendril of purple-black magic, unwinding down near his liver: he keeps hacking the fucking thing out and eating it but it keeps. Growing. _Back_ , and he can't—he can't—he wants to, but he can't—__

__—make_ _

__  
                                _ _

__himself  
 _ _

__

__

__s   p     e            a                          k                                                                —_ _

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__

__And a knock comes, hard, on the door._ _


	3. you can coax the cold right out of me

###  [3\. you can coax the cold right out of me [](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLuWMOF6vOU)[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

"Mr. Harwood?" calls a voice. "Mr. Harwood, NYPD": and Quentin jerks—no. Brian. _Brian_ jerks his head, and it is Brian staring down at him: big-eyed, pale-faced, his mouth rubbed red and wet with kissing, and Eliot—

—Eliot wants—

—collarbones, of which Quentin's are, of course, most particularly lovely: the tender delicate construction of his neck and his shoulders and his throat, holding up his head, which Eliot wants to keep very, very safe and very, very attached to all the rest of him: his sturdy lean-muscled pecs and his nipples and the scratchy-soft fur on his chest and his arms and the base of his belly and his crotch and his armpits, all over his calves and his lower thighs: the surprisingly workmanlike architecture of his feet and his ankles, which Eliot can remember spending one extremely long, torturously mellifluous evening rubbing over and over and over and over and over against his nose and his mouth and his cheeks while Quentin had giggled and giggled and giggled above him until they'd passed out, naked and sweating, all tangled up: _Well_ , Quentin had croaked, in the morning, _I think that was more ecstasy and less acid_ ; and Eliot had said, _Also definitely not a microdose_ ; and Quentin had rolled up against him and pulled the quilt over their heads so they could go back to sleep: not entirely unlike but significantly more pleasant than the feeling when, two days later, Eliot'd spent the entire afternoon lying naked with Quentin in direct sunlight while Quentin lay halfway to catatonic as he weathered the same crash Eliot had had, about half as intensely, the day before. _Well, that's not going to do the trick, is it, baby_ , Eliot had said, very softly; and Quentin had without speaking tucked his whole warm bare body against him, and Eliot had thought: I want to wrap my entire being around you, to keep you safe. He could actually do it now, of course, but it seems—all wrong: because Quentin lives inside Quentin and Eliot lives inside Eliot and they put their edges together because they want to and that, that, _that_ is what lets them feel it, isn't it? The places inside them that are the same. The places inside them that are different. The places inside them that _want_ to be together—

"Mr. Harwood," calls the woman again, "we have a warrant"; and Brian stumbles up to his feet. Grabbing at Eliot's hollow hand as fear bursts in Eliot's chest with a sudden, incandescent rapidity: Brian's huge terrified eyes and his—fingers, clutching at Eliot's fingers: Eliot can see goosebumps prickling up all over Brian's chest and his shoulders, because Eliot'd taken about zero point zero six seconds to pull his shirt off, wanting—wanting to _touch_ him, all that hot soft skin when they were pressed chest to chest and Eliot is still on the sofa with his shirt shoved open and the button on his jeans undone like the button in the fly of Brian's rolled-up flannel PJ bottoms is also undone because Brian may not be a magician but _Quentin_ is, and Henry fucking Fogg can sell every last one of them out to the Library, but you can't make a magician _not be_ a magician, so Brian's fucking walking around doing unbuttoning spells on instinct, and that's probably only going to get worse. Something had got Eliot free, mostly, hadn't it; and if he puts his hand inside Quentin's magic just above Quentin's right hip he bets he could pull Quentin free, too, but he doesn't, because he is terrifyingly, flutteringly unsure that Quentin would survive it.

"What do they want?" Brian asks; and Eliot squeezes his fingers, eyes closing, his mind wriggling out out out until it touches—it is in—a woman, familiar, somehow—she reminds him of—of—

—of—

—Sam is taking a statement from a big redheaded man with a beard and tense, frightened blue eyes: _Naila called me around two_ , he is saying: Paul. _She wanted to know if we—if Brian—knew a tall skinny guy with dark curly hair, she said—she said she wondered if he might be an ex-boyfriend, because Brian had—because Brian blew him off._ Sam is taking the statement of a tall, heavyset bearded redhead whose name is Paul Conaghan because someone is missing: _She said_ , Paul Conaghan says, and his voice wobbles a little, _that Brian tried to get away from him, and—and the guy followed him, and so when Naila went after them, she saw him grab Brian, but she didn't see where he took him, so I—I called his cell, and his office, and Kim, and then the department_ , Paul is saying, because someone is missing, because _Brian_ is missing: and in an instant Eliot tears through every atom of Detective Samuela Henriquez's being: crashing into another girl in soccer cleats and shin-guards; holding her abuelita's hand; wearing gloves to look over what's been taken from a desk at CUNY and an apartment in Queens and an alley behind a bookshop where Sam had interviewed a trembling girl in jeans and a hijab, her cheeks tear-streaked and flushed where she keeps rubbing at them with the rough cuffs of her sleeves; every word of every interview slotting into Eliot's aching temples as time slows and crawls and then stops snarled up with rage and magic as I slam your shoulders to the glass.

"Fuck," Quentin gasps; and "Who," Eliot grates out, "is Paul fucking Conaghan."

Quentin—fuck, _Brian_ —gasps, "He's—," and squirms, hot all over pressed to him tight-tight-tight—

—his cock hardening against Eliot's hip slickhot velvety skin he can't touch he had wanted it, hadn't I, always been such—such a fucking—can't even call you a slut for it when it is me me me me me me me starving, _starving_ , stuffing my fucking face with you twenty-six hours a day and still wanting more: you like this pinned between me and the window while outside the air freezes hands frozen water frozen sky frozen earth frozen Sam frozen hand up with _Paul fucking Conaghan_ frozen in her mind as I grab at you—r shoulders—

—slamming you back: Quentin's head snaps—up—

— _throat_ — 

"Who _is_ he?" Eliot gasps, wanting—no, no, _none_ of that, you are— "Who—" — _mine_ —

"He's my—my boyfriend—oh, _fuck_ ": shoving shoulders back pressing mouth to mouth to tongue to tongue; "Eliot," Quentin groans, and wraps—

—wraps his—

— _legs_ —

"—your _boyfriend_ ," I am grinding out and you—

half-moan half-muffled into my mouth and then manage, "I—I don't— _Eliot_ —" while outside the storm suspended bare-blanketing blank silent white and in the hall the police frozen in their stupid jackets with their stupid— _guns_ and Eliot could, Eliot could tear their veins out of them like ropes without pulling his mouth off your mouth or your hands out of his hair or your—your legs untangled from my legs, Gods, _Quentin_ , I want—I want to crawl inside you, fit—fit, oh, yes, fit my cock into you again I liked that I _like_ that I want that I want—I want you naked I want you to— _moan_ , just like that, because you're— "you're mine—" and you moan and you pull on my hair because "you need me—" and you _moan_ as I push—push you _up_ between me and the window, turning—turning you around as you are slipping—your hand 'round my hand and pulling it—down to tangle—in fabric as you—twist back to bite at my— _mouth_ and— "please" whispering " _please_ as you—push our hands and our— _skin_ with the—storm suspended outside in the same whitehot icy blur bubbling up everywhere around us as you look—sideways-up at me close-blurred and—

"— _Quentin_ —"

—buzzing into your mouth as, as Brian gasps: "yeah—"

—and Eliot presses his face down down down against Brian's shoulder with his fingers Quentin's longfingers tangled around his as he gasps, "Please, El—I need—" 

—and Eliot pressing Quentin's body between his body and the window with an awful, awful hotachy feeling in his—his nose and his burning eyes and his— _mouth_ —

"Oh—shit," Quentin breathes; "shh, shh—baby—"

"Quentin": gasped, knived all over; and Quentin pulls his head closer, hot face wet against the side of Quentin's throat with his backasslegs pressed back tight against its curving—clawed-up wrongallover— _body_ —

"You're— _mine_ ," Eliot tells him; with Quentin's hand on his hand on the warmsofthard salty skin of his cock and his—thighs—and Eliot's voice cracks; "you're my— _friend_ , I can't—I don't want, I don't want to hurt you—"

"You didn't hurt me," Quentin whispers, "you haven't hurt me— _feel_ —": reaching back to loop an arm around him head and shoulders, hand on his hands, and Eliot can't—he can't, he _can't_ : stumbling back shaking with—with his arms over his chest while Quentin is pressing a hand to the glass, and then—turning. Looking—mauled. Christ. A blotchy flush spreading across his cheeks and his satiny golden shoulders with his nipples pebbled up in the cold through the glass of the window and his pajama bottoms, his borrowed fucking too-long flannel pajama bottoms, shoved down under his hips with his dick jutting out. The pajamas' left cuff coming unrolled, so it puddles over his foot. The floor.

"They're looking for you," Eliot manages, "they've—they've come for you, they— _miss_ you": the big bearded redhead and the girl in the hijab and the tiny scrap of a woman with brown hair and a round, luminous face and the—the eyes of—

—of—

—of a goddess—

—and Eliot digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"You should go," he whispers. His heart, his pounding traitorous heart. "You should go, you should— _go_ , I don't want—I keep—grabbing at your feathers because I can't‚ I can't _resist_ you, but I don't want, I don't want to make you _stay_ with me, I want—I want you to be okay, I want you to be— _happy_ —oh, God, _Quentin_ ": as Quentin is tugging Eliot's hands down, his arms; and Eliot tries—he tries so, so hard, he wants—he wants Quentin all over him his little warm body his dimples his brown eyes his softclean hair that gets rough and tacky when they—when they can't—

—bathe often enough in the river to keep it clean like we do atlastatlast in the spring that first spring that very first spring with the green grasses up to our knees waving in the sunshine when we strip off all our clothes and I watch you and mostly don't even pretend that I'm not and your eyes are laughing at me when you swim up and splash and dart then away giggling and I splash back and we wrestle in the shallows as I am thinking over and over it's not it's not it's not what you're thinking but I just want and want and want because that's what I'm like and he doesn't, _you_ don't, do you? because you're not and so we splash and wrestle and I am remembering every minute of it for when I jerk off later and I'm pretty sure you know that but after a year of it I'm also pretty sure you don't—actually—care all that much—and _oh_ , you say, _I forgot_ , floating out on your back with your arms spread out wide wide wide: _the sun_ ; and the whole wet bare stretch of you floating limned and golden and I don't reach I don't pull I don't touch but I think about it, later, don't I; and six days later sitting on our half-stitched quilt in the torchlight I say _happy anniversary, Q_ and you say, _so—hey_ and then you press up to me with your whole little tense trembling body and I am always going to remember that, always, always, _always_ : that you—that you wanted—that you'd _waited_ : that you'd waited and you'd waited and you'd waited so long you were trembling and _I kept—waiting_ , you told me, barely a whisper, a half a month later, _I wasn't—sure how to—I didn't know how to say that I wanted—that I want you to kiss me_ , so I kiss you—

Quentin's forehead. Pressing. Up.

Eliot takes a deep, slow breath.

"Fuck." He swallows. "I don't, I don't know what's wrong with me, I didn't—I didn't mean it, I don't—I don't want to mean it, Quentin, I don't want us to be like that."

Quentin is breathing in, deep. His solid bare arm sliding around him. "You're calling me Quentin again," he murmurs, and then pushes his mouth—

— _up_ —

"Brian," it whispers, aching all over; and Brian rubs their noses together, and Eliot thinks: this is what it'll feel like, when I die.

"Why do I have a boyfriend?" Brian asks. He's so warm.

Eliot swallows.

"Why do I have a boyfriend," Brian repeats, and then bites at Eliot's bottom lip: "when I'm obviously—in love with you—"

 _It's not like that_ , Eliot wants to say, _I don't_ —

"—when you're obviously—you know, crazy about me," Brian whispers, coiling their bodies together: and shivering Eliot boosts him up against the glass.

"I'm in love with you, too," Eliot explains, because that is why it feels—like this, and I—

"Yeah," Brian whispers, and slides his hands in under all of Eliot's hanging-open gaping buttons: "so—why do I—"

 _Ora_ , Eliot thinks, _Jasper_ , and then—

— _who_?

"Touch me," Brian says, and Eliot—

holding his body up pressed burning-hot between his body and the stilled hushed unbreathing world outside the glass while they rub their faces together their fingers their skin their mouths and he bites down on his mouth so hard he tastes blood moaning licking as trembling spilling overwith and on fog everywhere around them the heavy dampcold dripping space of his power stretched out thin thin thin thin thin as they kiss coming together because he said and so he

—can do nothing else.

"Okay," Brian says, a moment later, and then laughs: a little high. Manic, almost. "Okay. Jesus Christ."

Their sweaty faces still pressed together. Bodies. Eliot nods.

"You should go," Eliot says. Shaky. "You should, you _should_ but I—I don't want you to, I _don't_ , love, I want you to be safe I want you to be happy I want you to be okay but I don't, I don't want to—to have to—to hunt—"

Biting down. Hard, on his own coppery-hot overflowing wet mouth.

"Run this out for me, okay?" Brian says. Quiet. "What happens if I go?"

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut tight. Brian going—out hands up into the hall to Sam who reminds him of—of, of—of someone he'd known, of—of _Ora_ : Ora's hands moving swift and sharp to show them battle-magic in the clearing behind the Physical Kids cottage—

Eliot blinks. No. No, of course, because that—that wasn't Ora at all.

"Because I think," Brian says, cupping Eliot's cheek, "if magic is real, which—which I am having—a pretty hard time getting my head around, as a concept, even though I—I _remember_ you teleporting us here and I _remember_ you fucking me with _fucking magical lube_ and I—I'm pretty sure you've stopped time, haven't you? Because it's still snowing, except that none of it is actually _moving_ , like, at all."

Eliot swallows. "Portals," he says.

"What?"

"Portals," Eliot repeats. "Not. Traveling."

"Uh," Brian says; and Eliot says, "Never mind."

"Okay," Brian says, "but—I don't think the police, like. Kick it, for ten minutes, in the hall, after they've told you they have a warrant, so—"

"I can't hold it forever," Eliot says; and Brian rubs at his shoulder. Hand tucked under Eliot's open shirt: Gods, Eliot wants to tear him apart.

"I don't want you to hold it forever," Brian says, quietly. "I just want us to. Take a second, and think it out, okay?"

"Okay," Eliot says. Hushed.

Brian nods. "So magic is real," he says quietly. "And for some reason, I keep—half-forgetting that."

He meets Eliot's eyes.

"And _you_ ," Brian says, "have been running, like, a hundred and seven degree fever for—most of this past day, but I—I don't think you have the 'flu, and if you did I think that would kill you anyway, and I—somehow I _know_ that your name is Eliot Waugh and not Ben Harwood and your birthday is March 21st but I don't—I don't know how I know you, or why—why touching you feels—the way that it feels because it _shouldn't_ , Eliot, I'm a dumbass but I don't think I'm _that much_ of a dumbass, I don't actually think that magical kidnapping, like, does it for me, sexually speaking—"

Eliot kisses him, helpless.

"Yeah," Brian whispers. "And that." Arms around him. His warm soft skin and his. Trembling. Heart.

 _You're under a spell_ , Eliot wants to say. _You're under a spell, you're under a spell, you're under a_ spell _, they_ took you away from me—

"It's—I'm under a spell, aren't I," Brian whispers. Their foreheads pressed tight together: Eliot's hunched-up crabbed back—Eliot kisses him; and Brian puts his palms on his cheeks. "We're both under a spell," Brian says, sounding—dreamy. Half-disconnected. "Aren't we?"

 _Yes_ , Eliot is thinking, _yes—Quentin_ —yes—

"You can't tell me, can you?" Brian asks, and Eliot squeezes him tight-tight-tight-tight-tight until Brian says, "Oof, okay. Breathing, El—" and Eliot manages, somehow, to loosen his arms.

Brian blinks up at him. Quentin's familiar big-eyed worried expression: "I think that if I go outside, I'm going to forget everything again, aren't I," he says.

 _Probably_ , Eliot thinks. It's not—it isn't _telling_ , is it, it's not even _confirming_ , so he should be able to— "Probably," he croaks; and Brian takes a deep, slow, breath.

"Okay," he says. "Well—I don't want to forget. And I don't want to leave you, and I also am not crazy about walking around with a spell on me that you can't even tell me about, so—I think we should stick together."

"I want to fuck you against the window again," Eliot blurts out. "I want—I want to peel you bare and push you up against the glass and—and push my cock between your thighs and, and have you—fucking— _ride_ it—"

Brian is staring up at him, all pupil. Mouth parted: Eliot has to kiss him again.

"They're coming for you," Eliot says, and his voice breaks. "They're coming to—to _find_ you, they're coming to take you away again, I can't— _stop_ them without ki—I, I don't want to, I don't want to— _hurt_ you—"

"But you can get out of here, can't you," Brian says. "You brought us here. Didn't you."

Eliot swallows. "Yes," he says, half-breath; and Brian squeezes the back of Eliot's neck. 

"Okay," Brian says. "So—let's go, okay? Let's just—go."


	4. we disappear into a dream

###  [4\. we disappear into a dream [](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBawf7-NqtI)[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

Four hundred heartbeats later, Eliot lets go of the snow as they step sideways, away from the clattering door. When he does it, Brian puts his arms around Eliot's waist, his face tucked into the open "V" of his collar; Eliot doesn't, strictly speaking, _need_ to put both his arms around him to pull him out of the world, but he puts them there anyway: the strap of Ben Harwood's douchebag leather weekender pulling at his ribcage, because portals are tiring and Brian had asked if he could borrow a clean pair of underwear. Eliot hadn't, actually, known that he would be helpless before the thought of Brian forgoing his all-wrong tighty-whities for Eliot's vastly less absurd charcoal-grey boxer briefs, but, apparently, he is; and it'd been a matter of a breath to tuck three changes of clothes (all his) into the bag. He'd added the duvet, too, even though he had to make the space inside bigger to fit it; after about a nanosecond of consideration, watching Brian wriggle back into his jeans, Eliot had also reached a tendril out into the Babeland on Rivington for two bottles of lube. Silicone, it had told him. That—that odd, creeping, mismatched part of him, that bit of him that—

—who—

"Wow," Brian says, stepping—sideways, his palm sliding down Eliot's back and that, _that's_ a Quentin-thing: that slow lingering slide to rest at the top of Eliot's ass, just for an instant, and before he drops his hand so he can tangle up their fingers. His eyes are big. Dazzled: all around them, the light caught by the water: the shimmering, bluing curtain that makes the cavern seem—safe, and protected, and—and _special_ : the glittering reflections and refractions cast into every corner, lighting on Quentin's lovely face, the collar of Brian's brown jacket (ugly, yet also hot); and Brian puts his hand up, about an inch from the mist, and then laughs.

"This is incredible," he says, hushed: turning to look around the big oblong opal of a room, the streaming water of its walls on all sides filtering up-up-up into the high-bright glowing mist at the point of vanishing. Brian is squeezing Eliot's hand, tight: Eliot can hear the quick, lovely thud of his heart. "What _is_ this place?"

"Pocket world," Eliot explains. "Discarded. An experiment. No one's using it."

Brian blinks at him. "We're not on Earth?"

"Not Fillory either," Eliot says; and Brian barks a laugh.

"I hated that book," he says, and reaches back up for the water. "Can I—touch it, or—am I going to get sucked into space or something, is this—"

"Uh—" Eliot says. _I hated that book_ , he is thinking, _I hated, I hated that—_ He swallows. "No, it's—this is just sort of. The foyer, I guess. You can—oh, wait, hold on." He pushes his hand out, and then makes a shield above Brian's head, six feet wide: "You can go through."

Brian doesn't let go of his hand. The waterfall batters down on the shield above them as Brian guides them through, looking up wide-eyed and stunned at it cascading off the arc of the shield's sides, falling everywhere around them, while Eliot mostly looks at Brian. Brian pulls him forward another step, and another, and another, until they are both through the waterfall and standing on the broad slate plane of the stone suspended high, high up above the mouth of the valley, staring down; and Brian—

"Oh my God," he breathes. Squeezing. Eliot's hand.

Eliot is—remembering. He has been here before. Once, long ago, they had made it for him: the bones of it, at least, before they had—had put him in the Castle. He'd come again, very briefly, after he'd left. In the eons since they had carved it out of nothing to put him inside it he had made it—better, at first: he had made it— _beautiful_ , he had made the waterfall, because it was lovely; and this massive, unhewn stone staircase hovering in the air looking out over his lands, because it was impossible: the suspended boulders so big that Eliot has to levitate Brian, a little, to help him over the edge, dropping gently down to the next, and the next, and the next. Below them are fields of flowers, forests, endless painterly sunrises and sunsets that he—that he'd barely even _seen_ : Eliot had shaped the land to his every whim, but he'd—he'd still wanted—more. Hadn't he. Now around them the air is sweet and gentle, a perfect warm early-summer day, but crawling down over the boulders in his little human body is making Brian get hot, and sweaty, and pink, and so when they stop four levels down to peel off their warm winter layers and push them into the bag—Eliot has to make it bigger again—Eliot drops the temperature a little, too: a cool wind picking up to blow the mist from the waterfall, cascading fast and noisily away around the suspended sides of the rocks. The twelfth boulder from the top sits in the river itself: the water rushing everywhere around its base, torrents of foaming white and glass-green, sapphire-blue. Atop it, Brian sits, cross-legged, squinting out over the valley with his nerdy professorial shirtsleeves rolled up and the wind catching on the ends of his hair; and Eliot thinks: _this is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, nearly_. 

"What's this place called?" Brian asks, when Eliot sits down beside him. Hushed.

Eliot shrugs, and looks down at his folded knees. "Lots of things," he says. 

"Eden?" Brian suggests; and Eliot looks back up at him. Brian's mouth quirks at the corner. "My dissertation was on this artist who did a lot of fairy tale illustrations," Brian says. "I know something about how folklore works."

Eliot swallows. "Don't call it that." Reaching. Out. "Please." He presses his mouth against Brian's forehead. 

Brian slides his arm around Eliot's waist. "No?" 

"At the end of that one, they always have to leave," Eliot explains; and Brian gives him a squeeze.

When Eliot had first come back to this world, after the Castle, he'd hated it, and not known why. After ages empty, the river is full of fish again, pheasants and rabbits run in the woods, and the sun is so warm and golden and the water so sweet that he ought, he _ought_ to've felt at home again; but—but he hadn't. It had been—it had been so _lonely_ , this part of him is explaining: this part of him that turns by instinct to Brian on the sun-warmed rock at the head of the thundering river, wanting—wanting to just—just press his _mouth_ —

—to the salty edge of Quentin's hairline. 

Brian's. 

Brian sighs, plastering himself warm against him; and Eliot lets Brian pull him down to lie on the rock in the sun, and then Brian kisses him, just at the corner of his mouth; and Eliot turns his head.

They kiss. Mouth to mouth. Such a little thing: tucking his arm around Brian's middle and pressing his mouth to his mouth: like eating, but—different. Different. _Different_. In the Castle at Brakebills in Indiana in Fillory—here, the last time: Eliot had just felt so hungry all the time. He'd felt—he'd been—he was an _animal_ , wasn't he: some kind of starving, monstrous beast, wanting—wanting and _wanting_ and wanting more things than he could fit into his fists, more things than he'd even known how to name; but most of them—most of them were this. Weren't they. Weren't they? Eliot still feels so hungry for him, but lying in the sunshine with his mouth on Brian's mouth feels—it feels like—like it goes into the pit inside him, not filling it up until he might not ever stop being hungry but at least maybe he could _think_ : with Brian's warm soft familiar safe body curled up against his. Brian is once again spelling open his buttons without meaning to do it just so that he can get his hands on Eliot's ribs, and that fills in the pit, too: that _Brian_ is hungry for _him_ ; the warmsoftsilky press of them, skin against skin. Holding him, and the way Brian—Brian just lets himself. Be held. So they kiss. They kiss until the monster inside of him, the hissing twisted-up animal thing that always—that'd wanted—that'd wanted Kikuna, and Ora, and Quentin, and Kenneth, the part of him that'd let Pete Asterly push him around, shove his cock in his mouth and then spraypaint "fag" on his locker—because that was about what one could expect, from Pete fucking Asterly—feels like the edges of itself are melting: trickling out over Brian's hands and Brian's mouth and Brian's legs, tangling up with Eliot's; the bared-soft curve of his bare shoulder, fitting into Eliot's hand. Eliot could do this forever, almost; lie there wrapped up in Brian's warm body in the sun of the summer in a world for just-them, until the very ending of the universe, but—

—but—

"Is there anything to eat?" Brian asks, squinting at him; so Eliot goes about finding him something to eat.

It isn't—it isn't like the other time. The pocket world bends itself to them in ways that Fillory never did: that first day Eliot calls a doe to them, so that they can pet her; brings down tart, crisp little apples straight from the tree, eats two while Brian polishes off three. They hold hands through the forest as the sky goes from blue, to golden, to purple; and as the afternoon heat is seeping away, Eliot pulls a dark, craggy welling-up power up out of the ground to braid together twigs and branches to make them a home: a little round-walled shelter set around a soft, spongey moss floor, with two round open windows, veiled by trembling green leaves. The back of the house is built against the base of the cliff wall, a dozen yards from a little, quietly-burbling waterfall: just at the east edge of the clearing, near where a little hot spring bubbles up out of the rocks. It's a nice place. Before, when he'd been an animal, he hadn't sheltered anywhere, but Brian's hands get cold when they're not holding Eliot's, and besides, he still wants to fuck Brian in the shower. A very little bit of work from Eliot is enough to coax the waterfall and the hot spring together into a broad, knee-deep stone indentation, to smooth its sides, to deepen the basin, to wrap the waters together to fountain up into a warm shimmering arch: and then, while Eliot works on calling mud up to patch the walls of the shelter, to keep out the wind, Brian crouches down beside the pool of the fountain to watch it fill. He is trailing his fingers through the steam coming off the mingling waters, over and over; and it takes Eliot a long, long time to realize that Brian has gone a petrifying, unnatural kind of quiet. 

"Are you okay?" Eliot asks, after, when he's got Brian into the shelter, lying down: wrapped up in the duvet clammy and trembling again, pressing his face against Eliot's chest. 

"Yeah," Brian says, thick. "This place is incredible. I don't—I don't even know what's wrong with me."

Eliot swallows. It would be the smallest, easiest thing in the world to brush, ever-so-gently, into his mind, wouldn't it? Sliding into Sam Henriquez had been like taking a deep breath. But he doesn't. He can't. "It's okay," Eliot says instead, and kisses the top of Brian's head.

But. It's not. 

Brian falls asleep quickly, and Eliot can't possibly actually need to sleep again, not even twelve hours later, but lying there watching him is—well, just _like that_ , for some reason: Eliot jerks awake halfway through the night from another stupid nightmare and then carefully, cautiously, starts putting a bed together under them, holding Brian's shallow-breathing huffing body closetight against him so that the work won't jostle him too much; then Eliot falls asleep yet again— _honestly_ —and wakes up in the soft warm nest of their duvet and straw mattress with Brian blinking up at him, his hair sticking up adorably on one side and eyes still round with sleep, sunlight streaming through the round leaf-curtained windows; and then they do something that Eliot doesn't have _words_ for ( _sixty-nine_ , the animal supplies) and it feels so, so, so, so good; and then Brian has a panic attack while Eliot is making them breakfast.

"Your medicine," Eliot asks, later; and Brian laughs, a little raggedly. He's still curled up against him, clinging to Eliot wrapped clingingly around him: desperate Eliot kisses the back of his neck. 

"I don't think this is a job for Xanax," Brian says, and then shifts and whispers, "You came for me in a bookstore in New York. You knew me and you told me not to be afraid of you, and then you—you _touched_ me and I, I—"

Helpless, Eliot tangles their fingers together.

"I was—I am," Brian says, unsteady, "under a spell, so you took us to your apartment and you put your arms around me and I felt safe, I felt _safe_ , I felt—like I'd known you forever, like my body _remembered_ , and you—you made love to me in that—all-wrong bed and then you slept. You slept, and slept, and slept, while my phone battery ran down and I didn't answer any of my texts, because I'm under a spell, and you're under a spell, too."

Squeezing. Tight.

"Magic is real," Brian tells him, unsteady, "magic is real and I'm under a spell and that's why I keep forgetting"; and Eliot kisses the edge of his ear again and then whispers, "It's okay, baby": and Brian's whole body gives a long, slow shudder, and then goes loose.

It takes another hour for Eliot to actually get some breakfast in him. He has to reach back to Earth for all the things he forgot: plates, salt, a pot to fill up with chamomile and steaming water, because it always helps Brian calm down. Quentin. A knife, when he is watching Brian pick apart too-hot greasy fire-charred fish with his fingertips: he hisses, because it burns him, because he need—he needs a knife, that's all, the simplest thing in the world; and Eliot is realizing that he knows just where to find one. Then they wash the plates with magic and Brian peels all his clothes off to slide into the pool of the fountain. "I feel—gross," he explains, while Eliot watches the water run over him: _Gods_ ; "I just feel. Panic-sweaty, all over": so Eliot gets in with him and pulls in shampoo and soap and conditioner and two warm fluffy towels to rest at the edge of the water, and then washes Brian's hair for him instead of fucking him, just like the animal part of him wants.

The fucking. That comes later. Days later: it's not like the last time, in Fillory, when Eliot'd been too drunk and cowardly to actually go for everything he wanted, but he still doesn't want to push Brian too hard: Brian, though. Brian isn't Quentin. Brian climbs up on him, constantly; pushes Eliot's head down towards his dick like he thinks Eliot might forget where he's going; shoves Eliot up against a tree in the forest their third afternoon and asks, "Do you like it, too?" and Eliot—Eliot didn't—Eliot didn't know what Brian was talking about, but the animal did. Eliot does like it. It made his face hot, his thighs: Brian's wet hand on him pushing his wet dick into him while Eliot braced his arms against the scrape of the bark and pushed himself back onto him, stunned and shaking, because it turned out that that little voice muttering at the back of him actually _was_ right, and there actually _wasn't_ anything like a decent silicone lube. On the sixth day Brian goes missing before dawn and Eliot finds him watching the sunrise at the edge of the water, shivering in his jeans and bare feet, four buttons undone on his shirt; face wet and salty he grabs at Eliot's shirtfront gasping, "You saved me in a bookstore in New York. You knew me and you told me not to be afraid of you and then you—you _touched_ me and you put your arms around me and I felt safe, I'd known you forever, my body still remembered you even though I'm under a spell, I'm under a _spell_ , and you made love to me in that bed that wasn't our bed and—fuck me, Eliot, please, _please_ , I need you inside me—" and so Eliot helps him out of the shirt and the jeans and he isn't wearing underwear and he's cold, he's so cold, he's so cold all over so Eliot pushes the waterfall away enough that the hot spring takes over, and he holds Brian in his lap and kisses his face amid the water streaming over them and the rising hot mist, warming him up.

Warming them up.

"Like this?" Eliot asks, fitting up into him; Brian shivers all over and nods, nods, reaching back over for the lube. "More, baby?" Eliot asks, feeling—tender, so so tender about him: just wanting—to hold him, just— _hold_ him like this, the way that Brian's body is holding onto him.

"I want to feel like you could just do it forever and I'd never need you to stop," Brian whispers; and Eliot nods, helping Brian up so that Brian can reach between them, getting him wetter: and then Brian hooks his knees over Eliot's burning shoulders, hand curling up in his wet hair, and Eliot fucks him like that for a long, long time.

In Fillory, they hadn't. They _hadn't_ , at first, for months and months and months and months: at first, both of them had—been so _pulled out_ of themselves: the quest burning behind them and Ora in danger and a puzzle to solve; but Eliot's stronger now, and Brian—Brian isn't Quentin. Eliot will protect him. He likes that, and doesn't like it; he knows it and doesn't know it; as the days unroll between them he keeps having to catch himself, reaching out for a second set of hands with the rush-weaving spell, which they'd always found easier with two people; or expecting, without really thinking about it, that Brian would pick up bread-making just where Quentin had left it. He doesn't. Eliot spent a lifetime in a one-room dirt-floor cottage with a roof that they'd had to patch themselves twice a year, winter and spring; eking out an existence on a kitchen garden and a handful of traps and whatever they could manage to get in magical trade; but _Brian_ didn't: Brian has a newly-minted doctorate in art history and has been camping exactly twice—both unwillingly, during an artsy, delicate youth in the Pacific Northwest. But Quentin. _Quentin_ had been a fucking _disaster_ , in Fillory, at first; they both had been; but it'd taken them about four days to figure out that they'd need way more than what the cottage could provide if they were going to stay there for any length of time, and it had been _Quentin_ who had just fucking got up and handled it—not Eliot. Eliot—Eliot'd been. Frozen. Thinking not thinking wanting not wanting hoping not hoping and afraid of all of it: the dizzying, wide-open possibility of that tiny, unmutable part of him thinking: _what if—what if_ —. But their life, their actual life, had started because Quentin had wanted, Eliot remembers, a razor. He'd just fucking wanted to shave. But the result, the _result_ had been that over those first few months Quentin had figured out how to sew and made their first (later much edited) map of the Southern Orchard from memory and adapted a few little useful Brakebills spells to the sort of things the townfolk in Applevale had actually needed—mended pots, unleaking roofs, found animals, corrective lenses—and then he had gone out to trade; bringing home a razor, yes, but also soap, and fresh vegetables, and barrels of that shitty Fillorian blackberry wine; and watching Quentin pick himself up piece by piece and _throw_ himself into it had pulled Eliot up enough to start helping him _back_. They'd leaned on each other _impossibly_ hard, through those first awful few years: the two of them just-barely limping along, scraping themselves together: for years Eliot had thought that the sex was just a part of it, like Eliot doing the fireworks for village festivals for a full third of their yearly flour, because no one in Applevale seemed to be able to master that spell and Quentin was dreadful at it; or helping Quentin experiment with psychoactive Fillorian plant-life, so he wouldn't spend so much of his time halfway to catatonically depressed. But Brian. _Brian_ never went through any of that. _Brian_ is the kind of person who, by his own admission, once got lost in a snowstorm while trying to go down to the bodega for more toilet paper. Brian is funny, and smart, and affectionate, and _wrong_ : he eats what Eliot puts in front of him, whether it's fish or mango or acorn mash, and he holds Eliot's hand wide-eyed when they explore the woods, and the rocks, and the grassy plains; and when Eliot touches him he is warm and eager and fiercely, thrummingly alive, _hungry_ for him; but Brian doesn't—he isn't—in Fillory, they'd needed each other so badly, and wanted each other in so many ways; but so much of the way that they are together now is defined, just, by the ways that _Brian_ needs _Eliot_.

"So—I worry," Eliot explains, finally. "Because you, hmmm—" a deep slow careful breath as he thinks _I'm not, I'm not, I'm not_ telling _him anything_ and then— "I think you—you _must_ want—other things. Don't you?" 

Better. 

He still can't talk about it, very much: the magic keeping them separated, the gnarled root of compulsion still embedded in Eliot's side, still binding his tongue. Still holding him back. He doesn't want to force his way into Brian's mind and he's not sure he could do more than see him, anyway; and the only saving grace of it has been Brian himself, who may be basically completely uninformed on the subject of magic and totally out of his depth and weighed down by a spell he's only vaguely aware of, but he still isn't an idiot: now he hums, thoughtful, sprawled out next to Eliot naked on Ben Harwood's stolen duvet, and then says, "It's—the spell. Isn't it." 

Eliot says—he says—he says—he isn't allowed to answer. He kicks his leg out, though, to rub his foot up against Brian's.

"I mean, I do want some things," Brian says, finally. "I do get—hungry, and tired, and, you know, I want— _you_ , so."

A very tiny, greasy-feeling knot twists tighter inside Eliot's chest.

"And I know I _should_ want other things," Brian says, pensive. "Like, yesterday I thought, 'God, it's been ages since I read a book,' but then I just—sort of forgot about it."

Rueful, a little. Almost—almost as though he finds it funny: oh, ha-ha, oh yes, I forgot entirely, that I enjoy reading books! That I have an interest, outside your skin! Eliot swallows, feeling sick all over again.

"I could bring you books," Eliot says; and Brian rolls up onto his side, his face soft. Touching Eliot's cheek.

"I thought we were trying to avoid portals," he says. It's true; they have been. Very early on, Eliot had been less careful, back when he had to reach back to Earth for all the things he hadn't thought about Brian needing, their plates and their soap and the salt and—and Brian's knife, of course, because he'd needed a knife, he'd just needed a knife, everyone needs a knife: something to cut up his food, or—or to protect himself, if it came to that; but the last time Eliot had opened a portal he'd felt a presence, not far from its edges: a spell, set up to watch, so he'd just grabbed as much wine as he could in all five hands, and then pulled himself out.

"I think we could risk it," Eliot says. "I'd be careful"; and Brian leans close, and very gently kisses his forehead.

It is another one of the pocket world's long, sun-drenched afternoons. Lying out on Ben Harwood's tasteful white duvet— _ghastly_ , yes, but at this point it's been so thoroughly mashed down, and grass-stained, and gotten vastly more homey and comfortable, that Eliot doesn't mind it so much anymore. Four hundred of Brian's heartbeats earlier, they'd spread it out in the grass, and then gone to lie down on it, and somewhere in there Brian had taken off all his clothes; and following the inevitable conclusion of _that_ particular line of thinking, Eliot has been trying, without much luck, to use magic to accurately duplicate the last half-handful of Please in the second bottle.

"If it _is_ the spell," Brian says. Shifting. His knees rubbing against the side of Eliot's leg, and Eliot squirms: Gods, Eliot wants him. All. Just—all the time.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, instead. Rhymes with, _Go on_. Trying. Trying not to get distracted: he rubs his fingers together, trying not to push back into it as Brian's hand rests, very gently, at the small of his back.

"What would that mean, if it's making me—" Brian sighs. "Compliant, or whatever"; as his hand slips. Down.

"'Compliant'," Eliot echoes, looking at him; and Brian grins at him, lopsided, squeezing.

"What," he says, "are you implying I'm not compliant?"

"Hmmmmmm," Eliot says; because for all Brian's odd, often absent disconnectedness everywhere _else_ , Brian is about ten thousand percent pushier than Quentin in bed. Exhibit V: how he is now reaching over Eliot's head for the experimental version of the lube, which still dries out too fast but is still unquestionably better than the spell. "I'll show you compliant," Brian tells him; and then doesn't. Eliot enjoys it an awful lot anyway.

After, Eliot says, "I think," very carefully; and then. Stops. 

"If you can still think, does that mean I'm not doing it right?" Brian asks. Muffled against his shoulder.

Eliot tucks his chin down to his chest, trying to look at him. "We can't just lie around here screwing forever," he says; and then.

Frowns.

Brian props himself up, squinting out from under his rats-nest hair. Looking at him.

"Don't you want to go home?" Eliot asks him, thinking—Ora. Blackspire. _Fillory_ ; and Brian reaches up to rub a thumb against Eliot's mouth.

After a second, Brian says, "I'm guessing you don't mean—Queens."

Fuck. Queens. _Paul_ —and Eliot has to take another deep slow breath and then let it out again, squeezing Brian tight to his chest.

"I wish you could tell me exactly what the spell _does_ ," Brian says, quiet. His head tucked under Eliot's chin. "It's just so—oh, well, I'm under a spell, it made me forget you, because someone wanted to split us up, or whatever, but I..."

He trails off. Sighs. Eliot shifts, uncomfortable with the implication. _It wasn't like that_ , he wants to say. _They didn't put a spell on you because they wanted to split us up. They split us up because they wanted to put a spell on you._

"Can we," Eliot says, "try to—um"; and then kisses him, long and wet and drowningly-deep, Brian pressing his warm body down against him arm under his head with his hand on his face licking into his mouthtonguetiedup and his—his lungs, rocky, as Eliot manages— "It—hmm, can you—" 

Brian rubs his hip, and then says "Five"; and Eliot says, "Four"; and Brian says, "Three"; and Eliot says, "Two"; and Brian says, "One"; and Eliot says, "It makes it harder for you to ask q—qu—questers— _fuck_ ": and then takes a long, slow, steadying breath.

"It makes it harder for me to ask questions," Brian finishes, and then kisses him again, eyes soft, while Eliot squeezes him and breathes, and breathes, and breathes. He can't nod. "Hey." Brian rubs their noses together; and Eliot's ribs loosen: better. Easier. Brian brushes his mouth to Eliot's mouth.

"Mm." Eliot kisses him again. "Thanks."

Brian hums, and then settles back down against him, rubbing his hand through Eliot's chest hair. "It seems like worked pretty well, that time," Brian murmurs, and Eliot nods. Brian blinks up at him, with his soft-familiar dimpled smile, and then kisses him again: his warm wet tongue and his breath and his little warm familiar body—

"So you," Eliot says. "So—you need—mm—"

"I need to try to ask questions," Brian says. 

The spell won't let Eliot nod.

Brian nods, and then asks, "What do you want?"; and Eliot swallows, throat tight.

"I want you to be okay," he says.

"I'm okay," Brian says; and Eliot squeezes him, throat tight, thinking: _Are you?_ Are _you?_

Because it isn't just that Brian isn't Quentin: that he is a man who is merely, very often, almost painfully like Quentin: that he has the same warm familiar body, his same wiry, stubborn, familiar mind; that he, like Quentin, is almost addicted to kissing, and to being the little spoon, and to anything they do where they can touch a lot. It's not just that being with Brian makes Eliot remember how, back after that first night with Ora, he had felt faintly, superciliously sorry for—for—for Quentin's girlfriend, because more than anything Quentin had just seemed to like the _contact_ so much: _I bet he never goes down on her_ , Eliot had told himself, taking yet another half-pint gulp of his paint-thinner-strength absinthe blended with liquid codeine: _I bet they always screw missionary style and kiss tenderly while they do it_ ; because that was the kind of thing he could still tell himself back then, scornfully, when all he had to go on was a single incandescent night with Quentin shivering in his lap, _clinging_ to him; eons before Quentin had ever gone down on him in Fillory, whimpering, half-creaming himself over nothing, nothing, _nothing_ while he petted the tips of three fingers against the spit-slicked rim of Eliot's asshole and sucked his dick like a pro and rubbed his thighs all over Eliot's shocky hands and stunned, gasping face: before Eliot actually got that half the time Quentin didn't even care if Eliot got him off while they did it, he just wanted Eliot to _touch_ him. It's that being with Brian reminds Eliot, constantly, of the softest tenderest parts of Quentin, the most fragile and most welcoming and most loved; but _Brian isn't Quentin_. Brian accepts Eliot's solicitude and his own helplessness with a tranquility that Eliot never _once_ saw from Quentin: Quentin Coldwater, the man who'd kept trying to bake the family bread when he and Eliot were both so ill with pneumonia that _sitting up_ had left either of them pale and sweating; until Eliot had finally mustered every last ounce of magic in his body to spell a letter to Miriam, begging her to send someone from the village to help. Eliot had had to enlist the kid, even: _I need you to tell Daddy a story_ , he had whispered, _while he lies down in the bed_ ; and the kid had done it with the wide-eyed, diligent seriousness that was 100% Quentin, none of Ora's joyous, loud-laughed bluster at all: telling them both a long, meandering story about a pair of emotionally dysfunctional badgers, until Quentin had fallen asleep against Eliot's clogged and aching chest. Brian, for his part, clings to Eliot with the desperation of a child and doesn't seem to be aware that he does it; Brian still has panic attacks at odd, unpredictable times: once when the wind came up while they were sitting out by the fire; the third and seventh times they went swimming in the river; not infrequently when Eliot is somewhere Brian can't see him, even though the one thing that Brian _does_ sort of seem to want, and often will pursue of his own volition, is some time by himself. Eliot doesn't know what to do about it, that Brian will kiss Eliot on the cheek and then wander off into the woods and then stumble back, an hour later, pale and clammy and shaking; that he sometimes wakes up halfway through the night gasping and gasping, and that pressing his whole naked body against Eliot's is just about the only thing that can calm him down. There was one morning Eliot found Brian sitting out on a rock in near-freezing temperatures watching the sun rise with tears streaming down his cheeks; but when Eliot crouched down to check on him Brian had just touched his own face and blinked, looking startled, like he hadn't even noticed that he'd started to cry. There was the time that Brian forgot about magic again completely, relentlessly, and _repeatedly_ for nine consecutive days, until they wound up lying spooned up in the shelter while Eliot did the fireworks spell for him, over and over, while Brian gasped, "You—you came for me in New York. You saved me in a bookstore, and you—you took me—you saved me in a bookstore, you took me home and—and kept me safe, you—you found me at the bookstore, you—" until, at last, something that Eliot couldn't see and could barely feel had shifted, inside the knotted snarled mess of their mingled and contaminated magic, and let Brian gasp out, "—because I'm under a spell, I'm under a _spell_ , I'm under a spell and you saved me"; and then, at last, collapse into sleep. Brian isn't okay, and Eliot knows it, but Eliot doesn't know how to help him: the last time he reached back to Earth it was for more Xanax, but even without it, Eliot spends a _lot_ time feeling like Brian is already terrifyingly, imperfectly sedated. Ben'd taken a lot of Xanax, too, after all.

"I want to hear about your dissertation," Eliot says, that night, as he is leaning forward to stir the stew in the pot nestled into the hot embers of the fire. 

Brian is, very clumsily, poking at the bread cooking on the stones beside it with a pair of long tongs. "My dissertation?"

"Yeah," Eliot says. "You said—art history, right?"

Brian nods, squinting about him. "Are you actually interested in art?" he asks.

A pang. "Of course I am," Eliot says, and then ducks back over the fire. 

"Because—I mean, no offense, but your apartment didn't even have any shitty Monet prints, or anything," Brian says.

Eliot swallows.

A million years ago. Eliot's second year. Back when Quentin was still so embarrassed about sex as a subject—or, at least, when Eliot was still enough of a stranger for him to be embarrassed about it with _him_ —that Eliot'd been pretty sure that he'd've had an actual heart attack if Eliot'd actually made a pass, not all that long after Quentin had moved into the Physical Kids cottage, there had been this afternoon where Quentin had come up into Eliot's room and then flopped back to lie stock-still sprawled out across Eliot's bedspread, managing to look somehow simultaneously almost fatally alluring and also incredibly, painfully stupid. He'd been in the habit of coming up to hang out with Eliot whenever he wanted to be able to silently Eeyore about whatever his latest drama-llama nonsense with Ora was; and Eliot had spent the whole afternoon sitting sideways in his desk chair, watching the little delectable strip of skin showing under the hem of Quentin's t-shirt and working, idly, on a very showy little illusion spell that he'd been preparing for his final project in Sunderland's class, which had the benefit of also being a really good way—most of the time—of dazzling first-year boys out of their pants. _Cheer up, Gerard Way_ , Eliot had told Quentin, late in the day, _We've still got art_ : and then he'd twisted his wrists so that the sigil bloomed out from his palms and then _opened_ : a cascade of gold-and-purple petals peeling back to reveal, on a whim, a perfect, 1/25th scale model of Michelangelo's David. If Quentin hadn't been such a philistine, Eliot might've done Bourgeois's _Maman_ , or even the Cloud Gate or something; but Michelangelo had definitely been the way to go: Quentin's eyes had widened, and he'd pushed himself up, kneeling his way first across the bedspread and then—blessed agony—in between Eliot's sprawled-open thighs: _Can I touch it?_ Quentin had asked, wide-eyed, and Eliot had bit back about fourteen ill-judged too-soon replies, and said, _It's just a party trick—no substance_ ; and then closed his hands around Quentin's warm hands. Quentin had slept there that night, Eliot remembers. Cuddled up. He'd done that a lot back then. Eliot'd had, as usual, to get up to jerk off in the bathroom at like three in the morning; and when he'd come back Quentin had just curled back into him, sleep-pliable and warm through his t-shirt and boxers. It'd been. Weird. Nice.

"That was Ben Harwood's apartment," Eliot says, finally, "not mine."

Brian hums. "Is this done?" He asks, jabbing the bread.

Eliot looks over. "Yeah, flip it," he says; so Brian gingerly flips it over to blister on the other side. "So," Eliot says. "Dissertation?"; and Brian shrugs.

"I was sort of—in the book arts ghetto," he says; and then laughs, a little. "I mean, when I was in undergrad I wrote a lot about, um—the School of London? Do you know, like—" and Eliot throws his spoon in the pot.

"Yeah," he says, throat tight. "I know the School of London. Please don't tell me you wrote doorstopper paeans to Lucian Freud."

Brian laughs, head thrown back. Dimples, dimples, dimples: _God_. "Well, I mean, like all good gay boys I preferred Bacon, but—actually, my main interest with them was Leon Kossoff, because he had a lot in common with Maurice Sendak, and what I actually wanted to write about was Maurice Sendak."

"Maurice Sendak?" Eliot frowns. "Is definitely not part of the School of London. Didn't he write kids' books? _Where the Wild Things Are_?"

"Yeah. He was an illustrator, too—an illustrator first and foremost, though yeah, he did write." Brian picks up one of the flatbreads, displaying both sides for Eliot's approval, and Eliot nods, reaching back for the spoon. "But—personally, and in terms of his artistic interests—well. They were both born outside of Germany to Jewish families not long before World War II, and they both lost huge numbers of relatives in the Holocaust; and I—I mean, don't take my word for it, go look at their work, Kossoff and Sendak did _really_ different stuff but there was some very interesting overlap in their visual languages. So I spent a lot of time in undergrad, like, trying to justify my interest in Sendak to myself by writing about Kossoff, and then—" He shrugs. "Then I got into grad school right before my parents died, so I spent my first year in the doctoral program so out of fucks to give I just kept throwing myself over and over at writing about Sendak, whether or not anyone in the department actually wanted me to do it, and eventually I think they just got fed up with telling me no while I just gave them the finger and produced papers anyway—honestly, I finished so fast because there was this long time when I kind of thought they were going to just throw me out of the program, so—better get it done while I still had library access, you know?"

Eliot doesn't know. He doesn't know what to say to any of that. He passes him a bowl of stew, and Brian reaches the tongs over to stick the end of a flatbread into Eliot's. 

"I was obsessed with Auerbach," Eliot offers, finally, after a minute.

"He did a bunch of portraits of Kossoff," Brian says, looking up.

"I know he did," Eliot says. "I had a print of one of them on my wall, at—" 

He has to stop. All the moisture in his throat, drying up. He takes a breath. 

"In. Grad school," Eliot says, instead; then he shifts, and says, "'All good gay boys'?"; and Brian just squints at him. Looking.

Puzzled.

Eliot looks back down at his bowl. Throat tight.

It's not that he didn't know. It's not—it just isn't possible, is it, to spend practically every second with someone, for over a month; to make love to them, to go to bed with them, to wake up with them, to eat with them, to explore with them, to listen to them talk in an odd, queasily-casual way about the past twenty-four years of their life, over and over, for weeks, for _weeks_ , and not have a pretty clear sense of how gay they are; and Brian? Brian is very, very gay. Brian is gayer than _Eliot_. It's—bizarrely painful, and also just bizarre; Eliot had once made a remark about liking to help a girl on with her armor, and Brian looked at him—for _literally_ the first time—like he was from outer space. _Really?_ a part of Eliot had been thinking: _Really?_ That's _your bridge too far?_ Brian just—likes boys. As far as Eliot can tell he never so much as practiced kissing with a girl; but Eliot, _Eliot_ remembers. Eliot remembers their hands on each other's hands on Ora's skin in her bedroom at Brakebills; he can remember trading kisses: his mouth, to her mouth, to Brian's mouth, to his mouth. He can remember lying with his head in Ora's lap, her hand tangled up with his hand on his chest, watching Quentin and loving him so completely, so _togetherly_ , as Quentin helped their son toddle about Blackspire's slippery tile floors, and Brian—Brian would never. _Want_ to do that, not with Ora, he might not even be _able_ to do that with Ora, and it causes a heavy, lopsided sense of loss to spring up inside Eliot's chest: that Brian has forgotten her so completely, that he wouldn't—that he very probably _couldn't_ , in this world, manage to make love to her; that their son wouldn't have been _their son_ , it'd be—if it'd been either of them it'd have to've been— _Eliot_ , Eliot who peeled her out of her armor one piece at a time and petted her hair from her face and buried his face in her thighs and kissed up her trembling belly and her dark lovely throat while Brian lay quietly on the other bed with his mouth parted eyes burning, stroking his own cock, watching Eliot touch his wife because neither of them was allowed to touch _Brian_ : _Brian's_ face that would be _hungry_ and complicated and _hurt_ while Eliot was letting her—her sink down onto him, arch up above him with her—her long pale arms, and her—all her—her red hair—

Eliot takes another bite of stew. There is a slow, dull ache creeping up the right side of his skull.

"Hey." Brian knocks his knee against Eliot's. His shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Eliot chews, and swallows. Takes another bite. Chews.

Swallows.

 _She realized she was pregnant in the winter_ , he wants to say. He wants to say, _She punched me, after she told us and I left. Solid right hook, too. Good follow-through. Knocked me flat, didn't she? And when she knew she was dying, she kissed me. Delirious, and she still told me I'd better fucking love the both of you._ He sets his bowl aside, trembling, and Brian passes him the dishtowel. _Didn't need to, that time_ , Eliot is thinking. Mouth stitched shut and sticking, he wipes at his eyes, Brian's warm solid hand wrapped around his bent-up lonely left knee. Squeezing tight.

"Sorry," Eliot whispers. Breathing deep.

"No, don't be," Brian says, quiet. "Spell?"

Eliot picks up his bowl and his spoon again, and takes a bite.

Brian squeezes. Sighs. If it weren't, Eliot would say so. Silence only ever means yes, doesn't it? Brian slides over until Eliot's shoulder is tucked under his cheek.

"You should eat," Eliot reminds him, so Brian holds up a hand, and Eliot pulls his bowl towards them: a flick of his wrist. Brian catches it, settling it on his knees, and promptly sticks his spoon in his mouth, turning it upside-down. Licking it, before giving Eliot a warm, worried look.

"I wish I remembered," Brian says, and then sticks his spoon back in his bowl. "I mean, it seems—super unfair to both of us, you know? You get your, you know, uh—fight-for-you-through-evil-magic boyfriend back, _sort of_ "; and Brian grimaces, apologetic; "but then he doesn't remember you," he adds, " _and also_ , from my point of view, I mean—I don't have any of the, you know— _meat_ of it, do I? I missed all the good parts."

Eliot watches him: clumsy, too close. Even after conceding, somewhat, to the prospect that he might have to lift his head to actually be able to eat, Brian's still sticking so close that his body is palpably warm, tucked against Eliot's side: a hot, solid little presence that sometimes makes Eliot feel lonelier than he's ever been in his life. Fuck. _Quentin_. God.

"I just want," Eliot says, after moment, "to be able to talk to you."

Brian pauses, before taking another bite. Finally, he says, "Yeah," drawing it out. "Actually." Slow. "I have, you know. An idea, about that."

Eliot tries—he tries to—he wants to _answer_ , but the best he can do is to _hnnh_ at him, and then a—he hopes expressive—almost painful roll of his eyes. Brian is looking up at him, grinning, lopsided; but he turns back to his bowl, and takes another bite while Eliot waits it out. He's still not—he's not used to being _not allowed_ to do things, and he hates it: the shifting, miasmic blanket of magic that he can see purpleblack all-over inside Brian, bones and blood and liver; the hateful, resprouting rootstock of the same spell where Eliot keeps having to rip out of himself—twice, now, while Brian has been watching, pale-faced and shaking, arms crossed over his chest, the surest way Eliot could find to—to _explain_ to him, when he can't actually explain it to him, why Eliot can't bear to do it to him: so Eliot just hums because he can't answer and then breathes through the slow rolling clench of the spell and when Eliot asks, "What's your idea?" Brian leans in against him: a steady, comforting press of warmth.

"Well, it's your idea, really," Brian says; and then, nonsensically, "Ballet."

"Ballet?" Eliot echoes, bewildered; and Brian looks up at him.

"Yeah, you know, like you did when—what if you just told me a story?" Brian asks. "Not—not trying to tell me anything true, or anything, just—just telling me. Some things you made up. Are you going to finish that?"

Eliot hands him his bowl, and then slings an arm around him. Turning enough to watch Brian eat the rest of Eliot's bread. 

"I'm not actually all that into stories," Eliot says; and Brian huffs half a laugh. "I'm not sure I—I wouldn't know where to start."

"Well, 'Once upon a time' is traditional," Brian says; and Eliot snorts, looking up at the sky: the sun long-since dipped below the rim of the valley. The black, bright-speckled canopy of the sky. 

"What do you want to hear about?" Eliot asks; and Brian hums around his spoon, sounding thoughtful.

"What do you want to tell me?"

 _God_. Eliot tightens his arm around him, blinking. What _doesn't_ he want to tell him? About Brakebills, which is forbidden; about magic, which is allowed right up until the point where Eliot tries to do anything that suggests that Brian might be able to do it, too. About Fillory, but Brian wouldn't be interested; about Ora and the kid and—and their _life_ , their huge, sprawling beautiful family: about laying Quentin out bare in that big royal bed in Castle Blackspire and then touching him, every inch of him: young again, and safe again, still his. _You came for me, into the darkest place in the world_ , Eliot wants to tell him. _You came for me, and you saved me, but then they came for_ you _, and they took you away._ Eliot tucks Brian's hair back from his face.

"Once upon a time," Brian suggests; and Eliot laughs. "No, really." Brian pulls his attention away from dinner long enough to lean up and kiss Eliot's jaw, sitting back into the curve of his arm when Eliot drops it down around his back: "Once upon a time," Brian repeats, curling closer: Eliot shivers. "There was—this kid, let's say," Brian suggests. "Named, um—Denton."

"Denton," Eliot says, raising an eyebrow; and Brian grins up at him, off-side, lovely. 

"Yeah, Denton," Brian says. "It's a good name, I think. Sturdy. Noble."

"It sounds like a floor wax," Eliot says.

"Maybe he's into that," Brian says, very seriously; and then, while Eliot's still laughing, Brian adds, "You can name his friend," and then scrapes up Eliot's last bit of stew.

"His friend," Eliot echoes.

"Yeah," Brian says. "He had—um, this friend. Who was very tall and handsome and good at magic—"

"—and good in bed—"

"—and _excellent_ in bed, how could I forget," Brian adds, very earnestly; and Eliot turns to press a grinning kiss to his cheek. "Mm." Brian nods, rubbing the bread to mop up the last stew in his dish: "So," he says. "His friend."

"His friend," Eliot echoes. "I don't know, call him—Martin, or something."

"'Martin'? What, is he old?" Brian says, then, adding a terrible parody of the accent, "Or—is he _English_? Is he _terribly posh_?"

"No," Eliot says, petting up Brian's back while Brian giggles and giggles and giggles, "but _Martin_ likes the Fillory books, because _he_ has _taste_ , unlike some people in this valley—"

—and so they call him Martin, and Brian and Eliot sit by the fire, letting the traces of the stew congeal along the walls of their bowls, batting back and forth the Adventures of Denton and Martin, which mostly works as long as Eliot doesn't try to actually think about it, while the fire burns lower and lower and the valley gets colder and colder, until, just about the time that Denton is due to start the Trials, Brian asks, "How'd they get together?"

Eliot doesn't answer, for a minute. At first, he _can't_ : wanting—wanting to say—wanting to say, _You were—this sexy little nerd who stumbled into my life on the last day of summer and I wanted to fuck you and leave you, but then—_

—then—

—but then.

"It took them a long time," Eliot says, finally. "Longer—longer than it should have, maybe. I don't know."

Brian nods.

"They were— _friends_ , you know?" Eliot swallows, aching. "They were—friends, and that was the important part. And."

He has to stop again.

"And they didn't want to ruin that," says Brian, quiet.

 _No_ , Eliot wants to say, _no, it wasn't_ like _that_ ; but he can't.

"They were friends," he repeats. 

Brian nods. His head bowed. Shoulders hunched.

"There was—um." Eliot laughs, a little. "You know, there was this time that they—they knew they were going to be separated, and they weren't—they weren't sure they were ever going to see each other again. And then. _Then_ , that was— _that_ was when they actually."

Brian looks up. His face—

"I mean," Eliot says, a little quickly. "It wasn't—the _first_ —hmm—"

He stops. Tilts his head. Reaching out to—to put his hand on Brian's ankle. To squeeze.

"It wasn't the first time they slept together," Brian supplies, quietly. "What, sort of—friends with benefits stuff?"

Eliot squeezes harder. "No," he croaks, finally, and looks up.

Brian doesn't say anything for a long, painful moment. Then he says, "They were exes," quiet; and Eliot takes a deep, slow breath.

"N-no," he manages. A breath, again. 

Brian takes a breath, and then lets it out. "I don't know what you're saying," he admits, finally; and then, as Eliot squeezes hard at his ankle, trying to breathe, Brian says, very quietly: "Five."

"Four." Thank fuck. 

"Three."

"Two."

"One."

"They loved each other," Eliot says; and it—it's like—ice, cracking, just at the first edge of the spring: the pond deadly-unsteady under his feet as he says, all in a rush, "They loved each other, and they knew it, and they'd been—ev—evening— _fuck_!" 

Pressing his shaking hands to his face.

"Evening," Brian echoes, uncertain; and then, "...everything?": and Eliot lets out a breath.

"It's not real, is it?" he says, and then laughs. "It's just a story."

"Yeah," Brian agrees.

"Nothing about—about anyone we know! They're not—they're not even real people."

"Of course not," Brian says, quiet.

"So—so in this story," Eliot says, "that I'm telling you, about these two people that don't exist—they'd already been everything to each other, they already knew they were everything to each other, so why—why would they need to." He swallows. "Do it for the first time again? Why would—why would the last thing they did, before they—before they separated, need to be something so—so _plebian_ , so fucking imperfect, as to fucking— _touch_ each other, but it _was_ , for Martin, it _was_ , he couldn't—he couldn't just—all he wanted," Eliot says, around the bag of nails rattling around inside his chest, "was to be with Denton, okay? It felt—it felt like he'd—it felt like he _had_ been waiting, like he _had_ missed his shot, and it didn't—it wouldn't have mattered if they'd—if they'd been married a hundred years, if they'd had each other's names tattooed on their foreheads, if they'd—if they'd—"

He has to stop again, gasping. Gasping, as Brian crawls over into his lap. Putting his hands on Eliot's face. Kissing him, long and slow and sweet, with his lovely clever hand curling into his hair, and Eliot—

—Eliot has to—

"There's never enough time," Eliot tells him, tongue thick, "there _couldn't_ be enough time."

Brian nods. His mouth—

"All he wanted was to be with you," Eliot grinds out; and Brian kisses him again, warm and slow and wet, with Quentin's soft scratchy-edged achingly familiar warm mouth.

"El," he says, quiet; and shake, shake, shake it shakes my head shake my head shake my head and whisper, "Can you—"; and Quentin nods, lipping—lipping at my mouth to lick me—open and I he, _Eliot_ , pushing at the hem of Quentin's shirt and pulling him— _close_ to me, oh, God— "Q—"

"Yeah," he is whispering, "El—sweetheart—": reaching his arms up so I can push his shirt off and I—want, I want, I— _want_ —

that time the first time that first time with her when you and she and I and I thought surely, _surely_ you would want her and you wanted her and she was—so inexpressibly lovely so incomparably herself and it would it would have been it would have been _enough_ , Q, I didn't—pine for you I didn't _yearn_ for you I didn't _wait_ for you or expect you but I _wanted_ you and you, you, you were kneeling up behind her and your skin and your face and your _hands_ and I, I thought, I didn't think, I don't know what I thought but then _you_ bent to kiss _me_ and I— _felt_ it, I felt it, I _felt_ it, baby—when you—when you put—opened your mouth—justtouching my mouth—bare, with your—bodywarmsoftreal heartpounding so hard I could feel it as you—first— _touched_ —

"Can I," Eliot asks; and Brian whispers, "Yeah, baby."

Lying. Lying down. Stretching out on his side in the dirt just next to the campfire while Eliot calls the blanket up under them, Brian kissing him over and over and over tugging at Eliot's zipper, all his buttons coming free: brushing his curled knuckles across the prickling electric skin stretched over Eliot's collarbone, hand opening-soft on his throat, and he pushes our shirt off our boxer briefs our jeans with our legs tangling up and our confused knees and our feet and our hands on our hands and our chests and our hair and we want us to slidebackinto and around and being, _being_ , like—like—

"Like—the second time": whispered, whispering as you breathe in deep with my mouth on your cheek on your jaw on your throat—

—your hand tightening on the back of Eliot's neck.

Eliot presses his face down to Brian's neck, heart—pounding. Pounding. The tangled mess of longing and memory that makes up his self spilling out of him, winding its tentacles around Brian's Quentin-body: his dark soft eyes and his even softer hair, warm shoulders warm thighs warm arms hot— _mouth_ —and—and—and you moan shivering when Ifitmyhandaroundyou and—and— _slide_ —

that time the first time that first time with us when it and he and you were tremblingwarmfamiliar, _familiar_ and it was starving and I was void and you were matter and you were—so inexpressibly necessary so incomparably yourself and it would have been it would have been _enough_ , baby, I didn't—pine for it I didn't _yearn_ for it I didn't _wait_ for it or know it but I _wanted_ it and you, you, you knew like reaching into the molten core of me with your hands and your skin and your _heart_ and I, I thought, I didn't think, I don't know what I thought but then _you_ bent to kiss _me_ and I— _felt_ it, I felt it, I _felt_ it, Bri—when you—when you put—opened your mouth—justtouching my mouth—bare, with your—bodywarmsoftreal heartpounding so hard I could feel it as you—first— _touched_ —

All my wanting made manifest, our past lives our living future: magic at the seams between us. Everything familiar about you, all. 

Brand new.

I didn't. I didn't know, I didn't know, baby. 

"Shh." Brian strokes his hair. "Oh—shh, El, it's okay."

"It's not," Eliot whispers, and then turns his face up: _mouth_. That same new-old knotted-up sensation of suspension: a chasm opening up beneath him, arms spreading, in free-fall—Gods, how do they _do_ this? "Can you reach your knife?" Eliot is whispering, blinking-blinking-terrified half—half—half me half us half something we can't— _look_ at—; and Brian twists, reaching, for his knife, clattered out to the side of the quilt. Brian holds it straight up between them, flat parallel to his chest; and Eliot bends trembling to press his forehead to the grip above the worked moonstone clenched tight in Brian's fist. 

"Don't lose it," Eliot says, unsteady.

"I know," Brian says, quiet. "I won't."

"If you—if I _ever_ —if you're afraid," Eliot says, throat tight, nose prickling, as tears run down his face; and Brian presses the tip of the blade against the underside of Eliot's chin; and Eliot can breathe again.

"It's okay," Brian says, very quietly; and presses the knife _in_ again, just enough to catch skin: and Eliot exhales, ribs loosening, and the first trip of blood trickles down the edge of his throat. "Okay?" Brian asks.

"Yeah." Eliot swallows. Swallows. "Yeah, you can—"; and Brian lowers the knife, and sets it aside. His arm still tucked under Eliot's shoulders, easing him down to the quilt.

Brian bends down to kiss him. Mouth. The wetness under Eliot's chin. Eliot closes his eyes, breathing deep, feeling Brian's wet tongue: _That_ , he wants to say. _That, there, what you're doing when you kiss me like that: that's a mending spell_ ; but he can't.

When Brian lifts his head again, his eyes are big and achy. Very dark. "Does it hurt?" he asks. Brushing his thumb against the already sealed-over sharp cut.

It does. Eliot shakes his head, and says, "I love you," very quietly; and Brian's mouth twists, a little. Eliot catches Brian's cheek. Holds him fast. "Brian," Eliot says, looking at him; and Brian's expression shifts, painful and complicated.

"I wish I remembered," he says, unsteady; and Eliot swallows and says, "I wish I wasn't—"

—and then. 

He has to stop.

Brian nods. Rubbing, very gently, at the base of Eliot's throat: "Martin and Denton," he says, after a second; and after another, Eliot swallows, and nods. "They were best friends," Brian says; and Eliot nods. "And they were lovers," Brian says, with his eyes big and dark on Eliot's face; and Eliot says, "Yes"; and Brian takes a long, slow breath.

"Partners," he says; and around the black water rising up inside him, Eliot nods, and it wells—out. Out of his burning eyes, across his aching mute and lonely hot face: Brian wipes at Eliot's cheek with the backs of his knuckles. "Married?" he asks, very quietly; and Eliot—Eliot can't—he wants to— "hnnh—" but he can't—; and gasping, " _God_ ": Brian bends down to press their foreheads together. Shifting, while Eliot presses up onto an elbow to bring his mouth to meet Brian's mouth.

"God." Brian's voice is thick. Clogged. "God, I'm so sorry, Eliot"; and Eliot shakes his head shakes his head and whispers, "No, it's not— _me_ , it's not— _us_ —they were—"

"How long?" Brian asks, very very quietly; and Eliot shakes his head. Shakes his head.

"Centuries," he says, finally; and then laughs. It's not true, so the spell lets him. "Centuries, Brian, entire—entire lifetimes—they were—they were—they were married for centuries, they had—they had a, they—there was—they had a—a, hmmm—a—"

A breath. "A—"

"Five," Brian says, quiet; and Eliot nods: "Four"—"Three"—"Two"—"One"—

"Child," Eliot says; and then starts to tremble, all over, over and over and over and over: oh, God, the kid, Quentin; oh, Gods, Ar—Ari—Arie—

—Ar—

A—

Brian slides down to lie next to him. Against him, half on top of him: the familiarwarmheavysolid _knot_ of him, pressed against Eliot's arms and his legs and his chest.

"Bri—": throat thick. Clinging—

— _clinging_ to him: "Shh, it's okay." Brian kisses his cheek, faces tucked close together: "God, I'm so sorry, El. Jesus Christ." He sighs. Wiping, very tenderly, at Eliot's face: Eliot clutches at his bare back and his arms and his ass as Brian kisses him, petting his hair back, voice heavy as he says, "God, Eliot, I don't know how to fix any of this."

"Ah," Eliot says: and then grinds down the whole knotted mess of his will and the weight of the ground underneath them and the clear glittering canopy of stars—twisting, distorting—up above to pull the spell down, down, down, down, _down_ until he can say: " _ask me q_ —qu— _fuck_!" and at the other side of the clearing, the sycamore tree bursts into flames.

Brian scrambles up to his feet, grabbing for his knife: good, instincts, _good boy_ , Gods, he might yet make it out of this alive.

"No," Eliot says, reaching for Brian's knee, struggling up to sitting, "no, love, it's—mm": and then eyes squeezed closed shut tight he twists the air around the sycamore's branches until the fire goes out, and then, shaking and exhausted, he presses his face against Brian's bare thigh.

He can feel his pulse. Smell his sweat, his come, _Eliot_ 's sweat and _Eliot_ 's come, all over him: Eliot wants—he wants to _eat_ him. Take him apart into a million tiny countless pieces, meat and bone and sinew, chew him up and swallow him make him a part of him—but he doesn't, really. Not really. Really he wants to hold him, doesn't he, to kiss him over and over and over again by sunshine by starlight, relearn every secret way to touch him that Eliot is still keeping hidden from him, tucked away, like—like a surprise. More than anything he wants to love him, really. 

Doesn't he.

To keep him safe.

Brian is crouching down. Helps Eliot up, onto his weak and trembling unreliable limbs. "We should wash off," he says, "and then sleep," and Eliot nods. Too—too tired to think. "Come on, I'll help you": Brian bends back down to bundle up their clothes, and then, after a brief, freighted pause, the quilt. "C'mon, baby," Brian says, and nudges Eliot along, back up to the stone lip of the deep well where the spring mingles with the falls, its water arching up, cascading down, and helps Eliot into the water.

Eliot drifts, a little. Brian's hands on him feel like—like little hot mounting pins, tethering him to their earth. "Rinse," Brian says, gentle; and Eliot lets Brian coax him down where it is darkhotheavy and drowning beneath the black hot water, knowing that Brian will, when it's time, help him back up.

They sleep. In the morning when the first amberish glints of sunlight start welling through the walls of the shelter, Eliot wakes with his head resting against Brian's shoulder, Brian's hand resting, very gently, in his hair.

Eliot. Can feel him breathe. And he can—

"When I've slept and eaten and touched you I have more control," Eliot says.

"I know," Brian says, soft, and presses a kiss to his temple; and curled tight clinging around him, Eliot swallows.

"I don't know what happens," he says, and lifts up his head. "If I lose control."

Brian's mouth quirks, a very little, at the corner. "I didn't think you gave me a dagger to cut up my meat," he says, very gently; and Eliot sighs, and lets his head drop, scooting down to rest it against Brian's warm ribs. 

Listening to his heartbeat.

Eliot can feel it, starting to rise up again: that slow, thick black-purple oil-slick knot of craving and magic and misery—

"It hurts, when I pull it out of me," Eliot says, as quickly as he can; "if I can—mm—if I thought I could, um—"

"Undo the spell," Brian supplies; and grateful Eliot rushes on while he still can: "I'm worried it'd—it'd be bad for you. That it'd. _Hurt_ —and, and I can't—I can't stand the thought of. Of choosing that for you, I _can't_ , Brian, I don't—I can't do it now but if—even if—even if I had a way that was better, I would need you to be the one to pick. I can't, I can't pick that for you, I _can't_ , baby, I—I just can't."

Brian doesn't say anything, for a minute.

Eliot lifts up his head.

"But I'm not really me, either, am I," Brian says, very quietly; and meeting Eliot's eyes.

Eliot—

Eliot doesn't—

"When you came for me," Eliot says, as fast as he can, "when you—you came back for me, you gave up—everything to save me and you—you _did_ it, do you get that? I'd—I'd _died_ , I was— _trapped_ , in—in a—a prison, this fucking—monstrous castle, past the end of everything, and you _came_ for me, you did that, _for me_ and I know you don't remember it and I, I can't—it's so fucking. _Hard_ , to—to steal enough— _room_ , on this stupid fucking— _leash_ to be able to talk about it, but—that was you, that was _you_ , that is. A _part_ of you, that's—if it's built into me whether or not I—can hold onto it or, or even— _remember_ it half the time but _you saved me_ , you gave up _everything_ for me, and that—that's built into you too, baby. Whether or not—whether or not you can hold onto it. Whether or not you remember."

Brian is looking up at him, with—Gods, those same wide vulnerable dark irresistible eyes—

"Whatever happens, I'm yours," Eliot says, quiet; and then laughs. A little wild. "All of me," he says, "it's—all of yours, okay?"

"Okay," Brian says, quiet; and when Brian slides his hand up and into Eliot's hair, Eliot pushes up until his next breath runs out into the hollow of Brian's warm, mobile mouth.

Later.

In the goldening light of late morning, Eliot remembers that Brian needs to eat, so he grabs three squirming fish out of the river and slits them open to hang on a stick over the fire: Brian does get hungry, but he also often doesn't remember that that actually means, so Eliot has to do it for him. Watching him. Constantly. Brian hasn't, at least, been getting any thinner, and he still tastes good all over, and his hair still grows enough that last week he had asked Eliot to cut it, sitting in front of him on the big, smooth flat rock that Eliot called up by the hot spring while Eliot trimmed the ends with his fingers: to Brian's preferred length, not Quentin's. Another ache. An awful one. A small, insistent part of Eliot keeps telling him that he could do it, he knows _how_ to do it, he could make another Quentin-body out of clay and stroke his hand over its too-long Quentin-hair and breathe into its warm soft Quentin-mouth and keep both of them, and it—it would _be_ Quentin, sort of, but not in any of the ways that actually matter. Not in any way that Eliot actually wants. And _God_ , Eliot wants: the same vast, bottomless chasm at the core of him that he'd endured for ice ages in Indiana, the pit of all the things in the world that he could have if he could—if he could just—figure out how to—where to put his fucking _hands_ —

"Figs, I thought," Brian says, passing over a basket full of them, "and more water," Brian adds, as he drops down to sit next to Eliot beside the fire, tipping the waterskin up to his mouth before handing it over. Eliot drinks, looking at him sidelong. Brian is wearing his jeans and his beanie and one of Ben Harwood's pajama thermals under his own brown cardigan: it often stays cold, in the valley, well into the afternoon; and Brian grew up in Seattle, and—his professorial drag aside—over the past six weeks it has become patently clear that his fashion sense never left. It shouldn't be hot; and yet.

And yet.

They eat the figs while the fish cooks, and then Eliot pulls it down and passes it over for Brian hack apart, clumsily, with his too-big knife, and then eat with his fingers. Which is also sexier than it should be. 

"Just figs?" Brian holds out the plate, so Eliot takes a piece of fish, mostly just to make him happy, but the fish is salty and good, the fat under the skin still hot from the fire, so he sidles over to steal another piece, and then another, while Brian is saying, "What—hey, get your own, they are _not that big_ —": half-laughing, brandishing the knife at him; so Eliot justtouches his tongue to the edge of it and then kisses him, "—mm"; messy, off-side, tasting of grease and copper as grinning, Brian murmurs, "You're such a _freak_ ," licking blood out of Eliot's mouth.

Eliot presses their foreheads together. His heart beating, heavy and odd. When he pulls back, Brian's eyes are a clear, untroubled brown; his dimples showing, just for a moment, before his smile slips, as he remembers. He ducks his head, then reaches over to wipe his knife on the grass, and then takes it, and his plate, down to the river edge to wash. 

Eliot watches him—the curve of his back, his graceful hands—and for a single, agonizing instant, Eliot misses Quentin so badly he feels like he's dying again. Then Brian comes back up from the bank, shaking water from the plate and wiping the knife on his jeans before sliding back into his belt, and gives Eliot another dimpled smile; and Eliot—

—Eliot doesn't know what he's feeling, just then.

"Okay," Brian says, sitting down cross-legged across from him, "next up in the Adventures of Martin and Denton—"

—and then both of them jerk their heads back to look towards the half-swallowed _whhcht_ -feeling of a portal opening, syncopated against—against a traveler's jump; somewhere up towards the head of the river.

Eliot pushes up, fast: opening himself up-up-up-up-up to the early-weak glow of the sun and the rush of the waterfall and the countlessthrobbinghotpulsingheartbeats of the deer and the pheasants and the fish and the McAllister bitch and her Library minion, and beside them, _Henry fucking Fogg_ ; and Eliot turns back to Brian, who is still stumbling up to his feet, and—and it _reaches_ —

—Eliot is reaching for—

— _power_ —

—and nothing comes.

Eliot takes a breath, slow. Lets it out, and then says, "Hold out your knife."

"What?" Brian says, blinking; so Eliot grabs the knife out of his belt and wraps Brian's hand around its handle, trying—trying to—trying to think to think to count to think—

"Squeeze as hard as you can," Eliot says, low; and Brian blinks up at him, but he does it. After a second, Eliot peels his fingers off the moonstone handle, listening to Fogg and McAllister moving through the grasses a half-mile away, as he rubs his thumb across the faintest beginnings of pink burnt marks at the skin on Brian's palm. Two little licks of blood, not _enough_ : the night before, they'd just rubbed off against each other and earlier Eliot'd sucked his cock and they'd spent an entire afternoon rolling around in the grass and the day before that they'd just lain around watching butterflies so the day before _that_ was the last time that Eliot'd come half-inside him: in his mouth, mostly, but also on his face: spilling over helplessly half-without warning after hours and hours of fucking him over and over and over again, not wanting to finish, just wanting to keep being in his mouth or his ass or between his slick thighs or buried in his mouth again, dripping spit and half-duplicated lube while Brian trembled all over and ground his dick down Eliot's throat. "You don't feel it," Eliot says, quiet, touching the marks; and Brian shakes his head; but _Eliot_ feels it, Eliot feels it and he hates it, hates it, he _hates_ it— 

"Do you trust me?" Eliot asks, hating that, too; as Brian's pupils open up, drowning dark, as he nods. "Okay," Eliot says, and closes his own hand around the blade.

It hurts. He knew it would: but it's still fucking _scalding_ , a searing agonizing pain: like magma, like the hole, like the _taking_ , like being left alone in the Castle, losing Kinuna like losing Kenneth like losing Ora like losing— _Quentin_ —as he breathes through it and breaths and he breathes not screaming not scream—ing—: with Brian's face at his jaw—his arm around his waist, white-faced as he watches—and Eliot lifts his hand, streaming blood: "I need you to." Shaking. "Swallow it"; and Brian mutters, "Christ," but he does it. He licks—swallows— _gags_ — "Shh, shh, just a little—just a little more—" and Brian nods and laps across Eliot's dripping wrist as Eliot feels them coming closer—and closer—and closer until he can't wait any longer and he flips the knife handle back into Brian's sticky hand, and cups his lovely bloody face.

"Stay back," Eliot says, unsteady, "stay hidden, and if anyone comes after you—"

"El," Brian says, thick. Still shaking. Eliot slides an arm around his waist, helping him back into their shelter of moss and branches, their bed. "El, what are you—"

"Do you need your meds?" Eliot asks.

Brian shakes his head, hard. "Wh—what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to keep you safe," Eliot says, quiet; and lifts Brian's hand: knife up, blade out. "If anyone comes for you, hide. If you can't hide, run. If you can't run, you keep that out, and yell for me as loud as you can."

"Eliot," Brian says, pushing up onto an elbow. Eyes huge. 

"Shh." Eliot wipes the back of his hand across the blood on Brian's jaw, bending down to kiss his forehead; and then stands and heads out for the river. "I'll take care of it. Stay here."

" _Eliot_ —"

It's the fucking Library minion—Gavin, Eliot thinks, oozing out through the trees—who's holding the net, trapping his magic: he can _feel_ it, creeping out through _his_ woods and _his_ river, _his fucking valley_ , while outside the net's boundaries, McAllister and Fogg are both working on a complicated locator with a clause Eliot doesn't recognize: _to find a magician_ , it remembers, the knowledge welling up from somewhere near his navel; and he closes his eyes. Taking a breath. They can stop Eliot from properly casting, but they can't keep him from being _Eliot_ : they aren't sure what they're facing, but _Eliot_ is. Moving towards them he is calling up from the molten core of his own little pocket world to pull power into the trees and the mosses and wrapping them closer and tight-tight-tight to conceal the shelter amid the wilderness at the end of the valley; and when Gavin feels him, whirling, Eliot drags the grassroots up out of the valley floor and through him, ripping Gavin's cruel ugly body apart.

"Irene," Fogg shouts.

"I saw," Irene calls back, voice grim; and twists the locator _out_ , just as the meat that used to be Gavin falls in parts to the ground and—

—and the net shudders—

—coming _loose_ —

—and it feels the other half of itself surging back up into itself and the locator hitting him at almost exactly the same moment, breathing in deep as it pushes up to his feet, moving towards—towards Irene. Reaching for her spine. She casts a snarling-hot mess of magic at him—cutting crushing exploding poison; and then, mouth tightening, a shield charm, another, another, and then stumbling back, she starts casting to re-open the portal, just as Fogg shouts, "Mr. Harwood": and—

—that voice. That fucking— _voice_ , I can't—

untangling out through through my torn open hands and my mouth and 

and shifting Eliot grabs Fogg by the throat.

" _Take it off_ ," he snarls, "take it off, take it _off_ of us—"

—and Fogg's eyes widen, shocked; just as Brian stumbles up and into view.

"Oho," Irene says, and no no no no no no no non o no no _no_ —

Eliot throws Fogg aside as Irene turns towards Brian, and Brian—still bloody and trembling—brandishes the knife.

"Oh, now, what's that for, puppy?" she is asking you cheerful and bright and you are saying, "Don't, don't hurt him, you can't—don't you— _dare_ —" as she grabs you by the chin as Eliot breathes in deep calling up every ounce of every kind of power he's ever been able to touch and then—pushes her _away_ in a bright ruby-sharp burning spray—

—and then he grabs Brian by one blood-sticky wrist, and _pulls_.


	5. steal from the makers who unmade us

###  [5\. steal from the makers who unmade us [](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kc1htX3q-F0)[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

Shivering. Shivering, it can't—he needs— _oh—shh, El—shh_ you say and oh blood no no blood no blood no blood no blood you _need_ that— "Shh, not mine, remember?" Hands. Face. _Teeth_ —and you breathe in-in-in deep-deep-deep and I—

—we—

—picking you up and then pushing you down again in my dark-dark-dark-safewarm corner in the softest part of Ora's room where I lay by the fire and watched her, lovely and shining, curling her hand towards her face in her sleep. Your sleep. Your body curledupwarm around hers the other side of the fire as I watched you and you watched me and I wondered: was it worth it? Was this worth it? Was it _worth_ it to never hold never taste never— _touch_ me again and then she died because I killed her because I wanted your bloody mouth back—gasping—

"El," gasping, " _Eliot_ —"

—and trembling all over Eliot presses his mouth down against your blood-smeared hot throat. 

Quentin strokes Eliot's hair back. Kisses his face. "We're okay," he says, quiet. "Aren't we?"

Eliot's arms tighten. "No," he whispers. "No, no—the Castle," _fuck_ : he "—shouldn't've—they'll—find us here, they'll—they want to—they want you, they want to take you, oh, God, _Quentin_ —"

"Okay," Quentin says. "Come on, baby, I know this is—I need you to focus, okay? Focus. Just. Focus on me, just for a minute": and pulling himself out of the goldpurpleblack drowning-dark Arctic sea, Eliot.

Nods.

Meeting Quentin's brown eyes.

A dimple, just. Bloody, all wrong: and Eliot reaches for him, wiping helplessly at the sticky red marks on his face; and Quentin catches his wrist.

"I'm okay," Quentin says, gently. "It's your blood, remember? From your—" unfolding— "hand": and Quentin.

Stops.

Looking. Looking down. Watching Quentin is rubbing his knuckles up over one of the aching-sharp oozing slices running the length of Eliot's hand, and Quentin takes a breath, as Eliot feels it wellingup drippingout of him, as Quentin presses a thumb, searing-hot, to the place where he is knitting Eliot's torn-open skin back together. His mouth twisted. Eyes black.

Quentin doesn't say anything. A long, dark space of silence, as Eliot's cells press back together, solidify, seal; and then, very slowly, Quentin touches the other cut.

Mending. Mending him. Putting—putting him back together to, down to the _heart_ of him—

"We can't stay here," Eliot says. His voice twists, and then breaks at the end. "They're going to—they're going to come for us, they want—they want—to take you again, I'm not—I can't, I can't let them, baby, I—I'll kill all of them before I let them take you again"; and Quentin presses his face to his face.

"They tried to kill you," he says, quiet. "And I. Felt it." Swallowing. "Didn't I?"

Eliot breathes. Breathes. Quentin's nose tuckedclose against his: that solid-hot mass of a spell that Irene'd thrown at him, exploding around him: he shouldn't—he shouldn't've _survived_ it, it was—made for a master magician, not—not a failed graduate student and a fourth-rate king—

"I— _baby_ ," Eliot gasps, heart pounding; and Quentin wraps his arms tight-tight-tight around Eliot's waist.

"Okay," Quentin says, quiet. "Okay. Okay. Shh, c'mere, El"; tucking Eliot's face in against his throat.

Eliot hunches against him. Fluttering. All over. All his feathers knotted-up-tangled and—and they'd, _fuck_! They'd left— _everything_ , and Eliot reaches his roots out through the membranes of the world, and pulls on their quilt. Wrapping it. Up, around Quentin's shoulders.

"That's. Incredible, God." Quentin kisses Eliot's cheek. "I've never watched you do it before," he says, very quietly; and Eliot takes a deep, slow breath.

"Brian," he says, quiet.

"Yeah," Brian says; and Eliot closes his eyes.

"Denton is a magician," he says, and then pulls his head up, and meets Quentin's eyes.

Brian's.

(Brian's.)

"He." Eliot swallows. "He fixes things. Little things. Pots. Fences." Brushing his healed palm against Quentin's bloody cheek: "Hands," Eliot says, quiet; and after a second, Brian laughs, pulling back, shaking his head; and Eliot catches him by the wrist.

"I should send you home," Eliot says, too fast. His heart pounding in his throat watching Brian's wide, black eyes. "I should—clean you up, and send you home, and you'd—forget all about me, and the spell, and—and the weeks you spent," _excruciating_ , "with me, in paradise; and the magic would—patch things over, probably, with your boyfriend, and your job, and your friends—but." Breathing deep. "But I'm not going to do that."

Brian swallows, throat bobbing, convulsive. There is a dull, red blush creeping up the sticky edges of his throat.

"Why not?" he asks, very low.

"Because you told me you wanted to stay with me," Eliot says, unsteady, "and I want— _nothing_ else"; and Brian shivers and presses towards him: his mouth meeting Eliot's in an electric, copper-salty kiss.

"Let me," Eliot whispers, "please, I want to—I want you, I want all of you": with his hands tightening-tightening-tightening in Brian's thick hair as Brian's nose drags against his warm-rough-tacky-trembling and then—then his mouth—teeth—tongue— _all of him_ : breathing out, "Yeah," barely voiced, as you hook your arms around my shoulders whispering, "Yeah, I—do it, I don't—I don't care if they come for us, I don't care what they see"; and shivering Eliot tells him, "If they turn up before I get back inside you I will pull the ground down around them, and build them the very fires of hell": as whimpering Brian climbs up into his lap.

It isn't—it's not like. Like it _was_ : the dizzying-drunk urgent momentum of that first confused coupling in Ben Harwood's white bed, barely—barely knowing what—what his body was telling him: blind craving _inside_ , _inside_ , _inside_ , while his brain fought every second helplessly to understand all the masses of things that his body knew it wanted, but didn't know how to say. Kissing Brian's sticky-wet jaw here in his vast abandoned empty black home still feels huge and impossible and desperate, the most important thing he's ever done, but this time with his mouth on Brian's throat and Brian shivering up against him, every instant of it takes on a electric, excruciating clarity: the scratchy mammalian drag of Brian's sweater on Eliot's fingertips, the throbbing urgent press of his warm damp-velvet skin. Eliot rubs his mouth over and over and over against Brian's chest, his tight nipples, the warm hollow cup of Brian's hot belly and Brian pants and squirms and his fingers tangle up in Eliot's hair, pulling Eliot closer and closer and _closer_ to him even after Eliot is already buried so deep inside him he can feel Brian's heartbeat in his every yearning, adoration-drenched cell. He'd been down to the dregs of his magic when he'd reached out for the almost-empty bottle and found it, somehow: the foundations of the Castle creaking and shifting as he draws so deep—deep— _deep_ he hits Fillory, the coiled-up Umberish heart of it—God, that cock—without meaning to; pulling it into him into him _through_ him as delirious he is kissing the red-smeared crest of Brian's bare shoulder and Brian is gasping—gasping—gasping; sweat-shining, shivering all over, as he rubs his wet fingers against Eliot's fingers against the tender plush rim of his body where Eliot fits into the nuclear-hot softwet insides of his burning-up skin. "God," Brian croaks, and his voice breaks, "El—"

"Okay?" Eliot asks; and Brian groans, " _More_ "; so Eliot shoves him back into the blankets and gives it to him: "Fuck," Brian gasps; Eliot—kissing—just managing, "—stop?"; as Brian gasps, " _don't you fucking_ —dare, oh God Eliot, _fuck_ —" as Eliot curls his body tighter to Brian's bare body to make a new body their body one body our body with—with two livingbreathinghot interlocking perfect parts. 

Brian curls up against him. Heart pounding. Their tangled hands between them slick and wet: Eliot doesn't move. How could he? His shoulders are holding Brian's hands up. He can still feel Brian everywhere warm-open around him: trembling, soaked inside. Eliot presses his face to Brian's warm throat, holding him tight; and Brian presses his mouth to his hair.

"If you can get the spell off of me, do it, I don't care," Brian says, unsteady, "if I forget I'm a magician again—I can't—Eliot, I _can't_ , I'd rather—I'd rather die than lose this again"; and Eliot closes his eyes, and kisses Brian's warm throat.

"What did they _do_ to us?" Brian asks, and his voice cracks. "Why—why did they— _take_ it from us—"; and he tucks his chin down, then, to catch Eliot's mouth with his mouth.

Eliot kisses him, hungry. Ravenous. There is that thing still blooming inside him, opening _out_ : a cascade of purple-gold petals peeling back to reveal—the rest of him. The _maw_ of him, with all its. 

Teeth.

"If I'd known how to find you, I'd never've left you alone," Eliot tells him; and Brian moans, tugging out Eliot's bottom lip in a prickling-hot coffee-dark _drag_ : Eliot shudders all over, tightening his arm around Brian's waist as Brian's thighs tighten up around his sides. "I'd've come the first minute to get you," Eliot says, and Brian makes another one of those little hot lemon-sharp noises, and Eliot tells him: "I'd've pulled you out of Paul Conaghan's bed back—back where you belonged."

"Here," Brian says, low and rough, reaching down to—

—to _touch_ —

—the base of Eliot's cock still half-hard inside him and already hardening again at the wetslick press of Brian's fingertips to the come dripping out of him, and helpless Eliot presses Brian flat into the blankets. Pushing—

"Can I," Eliot gasps, half—half-biting at—

—and Brian's teeth scrape his tongue and Brian gasps, " _Yeah_ "; and Eliot groans and pins his wrists hard to the quilt. Pushing hothardgreedy into the soft taut welcoming stretch of his body as Brian—Brian gets—his knees up over Eliot's shoulders, arching— _up_ while Eliot pushes into him, half-delirious, the endless bottomless universe-wide pit of his longing unfolding unfolding unfolding unfolding, and then Brian gasps, " _El_ —"

—and Eliot says, _anything_ —

—and there is a strange welling-up sinking-seeping sensation as the room around them is—melting twisting-warping as Brian—Brian's hands are—on him on him on him, petting, petting, petting, and then—then moving—moving, past the edges of his skin: sinking— _into_ him, his facemouthhollow _throat_ and Eliot wants to gag around them choke on him but Brian's fingertips are just—sinking—sinking back out through his skin while Brian watches with huge glazed black eyes as his wet fingers curl up smearing honey-gold: trailing it after them, the heart of him: glowing-sticky half-incorporeal and loving, loving, loving him so fucking desperately, still only-just-pinned to the center of Eliot's overfull aching chest and wanting, wanting, wanting: wanting him like Eliot wants him wanting to be all over him in him _inside_ him, inside him where it is cozy-warm and safe and bright and so so so so so so so so fucking loved as _don't_ Eliot is snarling _don't you fucking_ dare: closing his hollow mouth around Brian's lovely long fingers and swallowing, swallowing, swallowing so that Brian moans clenching his whole  moaning impossible the body as he comes tangle of tight messy-hot leaking their bodies and their mouths and their hands and their magic and their brains and their—fucking— _hearts_ : Eliot's whole knotted black-gold-purple self seizing-up-clenching-down-shoving-in, as Brian gasps, "— _fuck_ —," and then sobs as he sobs as you sob as we sob as it sobs.

Shivering.

Sobs: Eliot half-biting down on Brian's crooked fingers, as Brian pets at the inside walls of Eliot's drooling mouth. Tears wet all over Brian's burning-red face.

Eliot licks. Pulls off, kissing him: knuckles, jaw. He wants—

"You came for me," Brian whispers, "you came for me in New York, you—you came _for me_ , you—"

"I needed you." Eliot presses their faces together. "I need you." Mouths.

"You saved me." Tongues. Brian licks him wide-open breathing: "You keep— _saving_ me—"

Eliot whispers, "I'm nothing without you, my love"; and sighing Brian presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose. Wrapping his sweaty-hot arms warmtight around Eliot's shoulders. Holding him.

Close.

"If we stay like this much longer I'm going to figure out the spell that makes you be able to do it again," Brian says, voice thick; and Eliot nods. Kissing the bottom of his jaw: Brian shivers, curling up, as Eliot pulls out. Tucking Brian's little warm body in against him, pulling up the quilt.

"We can't stay here," Brian says. "You said."

"I know, shh." Eliot rubs his face against him. "Just—let's just. Take a minute": as Brian is tangling up their hands.

"Do we have a minute?" he asks; and Eliot holds his breath for a beat, a beat, a beat: until he says, "Fuck. I don't know. Maybe. Not"; and lifts up his head.

Brian's face is still bloody. Sweaty and flushed. "God, you're a mess— _fuck_." Eliot wipes at the edge of his mouth, thinking, a little hysterically: _Well, he's definitely not going to have any problems with the_ knife _._ "I'm sorry, baby," Eliot says; and Brian—laughs.

"I feel," Brian says, "pretty great, actually, so—"; and takes Eliot's wrist, as they stumble up to their feet. Brian puts his arms out around Eliot's shoulders, one of Quentin's huge, dizzying epic-film hugs: every milliliter of Eliot's body aches.

"Come on," Eliot says. "I am _not_ wandering with you across the universe with come running down the back of your thigh, so—"

"Thanks," Brian says. "Remind me again whose fault that is?"

There's a fountain in the center of the Castle: the ordinary kind. The water is cold, but sweet, and Eliot can still heat it, mostly, with a little bit of the right kind of pressure on the right parts of the world; so Brian doesn't protest, much, bending over it naked to splash water up onto his belly and thighs, wash his hands and his face.

"No chance of a bath," Brian asks, confirming; and Eliot says, "Not unless you want to climb in," which—Brian looks like he's thinking about it, but Eliot can feel an odd buzzing starting up, at the edges of the waterfall. "I—I don't actually think we have time," Eliot says, and then kisses him; so Brian finishes wiping himself off, looking incredibly and familiarly awkward about it, while Eliot goes back into Ora's room to collect their clothes and the quilt. Brian's jacket's gone missing, somewhere, and he doesn't—Eliot can't—he reaches back for the edges of the valley and just—

                                               _i_

 

 

             _c_

   
                                                                           _an_

                                     _'t_

 

"—whoa, okay," arm—sliding—: "hey, there," Brian says, closewarm, and brushes Eliot's hair back, helping Eliot get back up on top of his feet, then tugs his open trousers up, a bit, on his hips. "What happened there?"

"I just—fuck." Eliot passes over Brian's shirt, and then scrubs at his face. "I can't find your jacket."

"Oh." Brian shrugs, and slides the thermal over his head, then bends down for his underwear. "I wasn't wearing it. It was nice out."

"It's not nice everywhere, though," Eliot says. "I should—be able to get it, it's not hard, it's just a portal, I just—I should be able to do it, it isn't—"

"Okay, Hermione Granger, take a second and think about that," Brian says, wriggling his jeans up his hips. "We have clothes, we have—this quilt, and you just almost passed out, and you're our ride, so—"

"—you'll get cold," Eliot says; and Brian grins up at him, lopsided.

"I have faith that you can warm me up," Brian says.

Eliot swallows. He wants—

—but he.

He can feel. 

"They're coming," Eliot says: a serrated, painful scrape in his throat. 

Brian looks at him.

"Put your shoes on," Eliot says. "They're almost here, I have to—I have to get. Some stuff."

Brian nods, and bends down to put on his shoes; and Eliot doesn't want to but he has to Brian needs him to, so Eliot follows the hot, flinching memory of the Castle down to the kitchens where he'd first learned how to cook, really, properly, Ora laughing at him as they chopped onions side by side, tears streaming down their cheeks, while behind—behind them, Quentin—

Eliot stops, his hand on one cobwebbed cupboard. Because—because that wasn't here, was it? That wasn't—that was in Fillory, and every cupboard in Blackspire is empty, but Ora had kept all her questing gear, waterskins and her sword and her traveling pack, and there is a fountain beneath the pear tree in Ora's little garden, spilling ambrosia into a shimmering golden cup. Eliot fills the waterskins, nestles pears amid Ora's old shifts and her cloak in her traveling bag, tears up handfuls of chamomile and wraps them in paper for Quentin's tea, and then he goes back to the courtyard, where Henry Fogg is knocked out, sprawled insensible across the paving stones, and Brian is trembling with magic roiling off him, crackling in the air, as he holds his moonstone knife against Alice Quinn's white throat.

Alice looks at Eliot: the traveling pack, the waterskins, wearing Ben Harwood's black coat and Brian's body all over him; Eliot wonders, a little, how much of it she can see.

"Please," she says, "I know you don't remember me, Ben—"; and Brian snaps, " _Wrong_ ," pushing the knife up against her; and Alice's eyes dart to him, then back to Eliot:

"My name," he says, "is Eliot Waugh. Hi, Alice. I remember you just fine."

"We know her?" Brian asks.

 _Yes_ , Eliot can't say, _she's your ex-girlfriend_ ; but Brian wouldn't believe him, anyway. His magic is starting to snap, sputtering and crackling at his edges: like Quentin, when Eliot'd first met him, self-involved and clueless and _zero_ control, the most beautiful thing that Eliot'd ever seen. Eliot puts his hand on Brian's wrist, lowering the knife, and Alice stumbles back, her eyes fixed on Eliot's face. Good girl. Disarmed, tucked trembling against him, sweat-clammy through his shirt: Brian's no kind of a threat, not to her. Eliot kisses his forehead: he hopes she chokes on it and dies. "There's a cloak in the bag, baby," he says quietly, tucking the knife back into Brian's belt, "and one of the waterskins is still empty. Take it to the fountain and fill it up, and then put the cloak on. You're shivering."

Brian nods. Still trembling: he tilts his chin up so Eliot kisses him, once. Light, hand cupped beside their faces to shield it: that one's not for Alice. When Brian stumbles over to Ora's old gear, Eliot steps closer to Alice. Hands. In his pockets.

"What've you done to him?" she asks, voice flat.

"I didn't do anything to him," Eliot says quietly—a pang: not _quite_ true, is it—and then nods at Fogg. "It was all him." He tilts his head. "He didn't dose you, then? When he—went after the rest of them." 

Alice swallows, stepping half-away. "You're not Eliot."

He straightens. "Well," he says, " _that's_ rude."

"You're _not Eliot_ ," she repeats, her voice very flat; and he.

Smiles down at her, and then touches her cheek.

"I mean," he says, very quietly, "that's what he calls me when I fuck him"; and Alice flinches; and he grabs her by the chin.

"Henry Fogg killed Quentin Coldwater," Eliot says, soft. "He killed—Julia, and Penny, and Kady, and Ora, and Josh; but I'm going to do everything in my power to get him back, Alice, and everything in my power is." Shivering: he can _feel_ it, the deep dark well of his body, opening up on the earth. "A _lot_."

"You're not his friend," she whispers, "you're a monster"; and he rubs over her cheek.

"I didn't let him kill you, did I," he reminds her, very gently; and—

—and Alice's eyes—

—welling-up blue-silver-wet, and he's never—

—has he ever _seen_ her cry? All those days and weeks and months of her tense, awkward, enraged little presence, barely able to talk to him even before he fucked her boyfriend: he hadn't liked her, because he'd been jealous of her, and that'd made him ashamed. Then she'd died and then she'd been a demon and then she'd almost killed Quentin—

"Please don't hurt him," she whispers; and Eliot—

—Eliot doesn't—

—he doesn't know what it is that is lashing up out of him, that terrible monstrous animal thing, swelling up inside his ribs pushing-pushing-pushing-pushing-pushing—

—until his arms wrap around her. And—

—and her head—

—tucking just under his—

— _mouth_ , and "help me," it is whispering, to the soft-straight-silky fall of her hair, "please, Jesus, help me, Alice— _please_ —"

—and she gasps, her shoulders tensing up against him, and surging up bright-bright-bright as behind him Brian is saying, "—Eliot—," as desperate it tightens its arms around her whispering, "I know, I _know_ you, I know you can, I know you can do it, we need you to—to _help_ , I can't—I don't want, I don't want to hurt him," Eliot is explaining, tense-aching trembling, "I don't want to hurt him, I don't want to hurt him, I'm so afraid I'm going to—"

"Mr. Harwood," Fogg croaks, from the floor; and Eliot whirls—

" _Come_ ," Fogg is saying except it isn't because it is in " _up from the dark_ " Spanish and "Wait," Alice is gasping, reaching for Brian but the spell in Fogg's hands slashes through the raw power in Eliot's as Fogg commands: " _ness and drown_ —"

" _No_ ," Alice screams; and shoves Brian at him as Eliot reaches for him, grabbing—half-falling backwards through the hole in the universe as he—

 

 

—as he—

 

 

 

 

—"Eliot," he hears, "El—fuck, _Eliot_ —"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hands on his face and a scratchy-soft warmthrillingwet mouth on his mouth and he jerks back, stumbling—stumbling on ragged uneven stone under a cold red low-wrong sky looking at a brown-eyed boy with a stupid haircut and some kind of dumbass D&D knife at his waist—

 

— _en's_ knife—

 

 

 

 

— _whose?_

 

"Who the fuck are you," he asks; and the boy's face crumples: God, what a fucking _loser_ —where, where the fuck is he, even, how much did he drink last night?

"Eliot," the kid says; and then, with a low, wet catch in his voice, "—Ben."

"Shut _up_ , I don't fucking know you," Ben snarls at him; and the kid buries his face in his hands. Breathing in. 

"You do," he says, rough. "You _do_ , though—oh, God. Fuck. Oh, Jesus, I didn't—I didn't know, oh, God, _Eliot_."

The kid wipes. At his face: God, what a fucking— _pussy_ , where—where the fuck _are_ they, what—what day is it, even, is he missing work for this bullshit? The red suns—sun, that is— _not_ a fucking optical illusion tear rip pullopen this is, this is, this is _real_ but it isn't, of course, he can't—freak out, it's just—some stupid fucking practical joke, trying to get him to—to—where, where are they—

"Ben," the kid is saying, reaching out for him, his—his warm clever hand slipping over Ben's hand and then winding— _up_ —

"Don't _touch_ me," Ben snarls, snapping— _out_ —

A roar. The wet-dark leviathan howl of water-fire his split cusp-born split self: _Fucking astrology, bitches_ , Ora had said about it, delighted, the first time Ben'd done it at—at Yale; and there'd been a slim-hipped blue-eyed boy whose name he doesn't remember who'd watched him do it, licking over his bottom lip and he'd—he'd fucked—he'd _fucked_ him but he hadn't, he _didn't_ , he doesn't— _do_ that but blackgoldpurple burning-wet power is still exploding out of him: tangled-up slickwet lava-hot a thousand times stronger, now, screaming out— _everywhere_ —

—and it slams into the kid, ripping him open; and Brian crumples, spraying black blood across rock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

the howl the howl the howl the howl the howl want I howl it everywhere everywhere the howl

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. sharp as a mirror broke in two

###  [6\. sharp as a mirror broke in two [](https://anonym.to?https://soundcloud.com/perfumegenius/run-me-through)[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

 

 

 

the howl the howl the howl the howl the howl want I howl it everywhere everywhere the howl

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

" _No_ ," Eliot gasps, surging up tearing-hot ripping teeth claws bones _bite_ he will die for this, die and die and die and die Ben will die, Eliot stumbling over to Brian on the ground, petting the ripped-open seams of his chest and his arms and his face and his—throat, Gods, there is—there is _so much blood_ and he has to, he has to—trying to push time backbackbackbackback

 

"El," Brian gasps, blood bubbling—

 

 

 

 

but it won't go it won't go it won't _go_ "No, shh, shhh, shhhhhhh, love, I have to—" as he is grabbing at the stretched-thin snapping snarled threads of his power as "I have to put it—back," Brian's blood Brian's blood Brian's _blood_ "I have to—"

 

—and Brian presses his sticky hand to Eliot's face.

"No, shh, shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay, see?" Eliot gasps. Gasps. Gasps: pushing Brian's cells back together, knees slick on the rock as— _mend_ , he is panting, frantic, _mend, mend_ , mend— "Brian," Eliot sobs, and then kisses him: "Brian, baby— _Quentin_ —"

"Sweetheart," Quentin whispers; and Eliot shudders alloverdowninto and kisses him, tasting nothing but blood. 

"Do you—do you remember," Eliot whispers: Mike Ora Penny Alice Jasper Kady M—Ma—M—Ora, _Ora_ T— _Teddy_ as he is pressing—pressing— _pressing_ : "do you remember when Teddy broke his arm?"

Quentin's ribs move. His eyes—

"Teddy climbed up the ladder to stand on the top which he wasn't supposed to do and he knew it and he fell," Eliot says, willing—willing him to—to _hear_ him: "he fell, and he broke his arm, really badly, and the bone came through the skin, he was six, do you remember?"

Quentin's eyes close, and then open.

"You fixed him," Eliot whispers, dragging Quentin's hand up: his hand on Quentin's hand on, on his throat, the worst of it, spilling out everywhere and Eliot can shove it back into him but he can't—he can't make it— _stick_ — "Or—or my throa—my hand, my _hand_ ," Eliot reminds him, desperate: "I put my hand on the knife to make it bleed so you could—" and Brian shifts, rubbing his mouth against his: and Eliot feels it, just starting up inside him, the lovely green-grey-brown earthy Quentinish flavor of it; as slow—slow—slow, Eliot's hands shaking on his hand, Brian seals up the gash in his own wet throat.

"Yes," Eliot gasps, "oh—thank the Gods— _Brian_ —" and then drags Brian's hand down to his slashed-open gushing chest.

It takes a long, long time. Brian hasn't got any control and Eliot is running on fumes and the less critical wounds Eliot has to just rinse with water from the fountain at Blackspire, wrap up with fabric torn from the too-small girl's tunics that were stuffed into the bottom of Ora's old traveling pack; when Brian's at last mostly not leaking all over the place anymore, Eliot lifts up Brian's head and shoulders, trembling, to settle him as gently as he can against Eliot's aching chest and aching face and spider-crawling cringing shoulder so that Eliot can tip ambrosia into his mouth while Brian swallows, swallows, swallows. He can't even lift his arms up. Pressed this close to him body to body Eliot wants—he wants to—he can't he can't he can't he doesn't want to go _in_ to Brian's solidstrongpulsing human brain but Eliot still pushes up close huddled against it, trying to pull the pain out of him into him but it's too much, too much, too much: _excruciating_ , even only-just-pressed against his little solid lovely warm mind. There's blood everywhere, and nothing but stone to lie against: the dusty miserable rock of a world barely-better than freezing, its two too-cool suns hanging low in its red, oppressive sky. A bolthole, nothing better. Not the sort of place Eliot would've aimed for, if he'd known. The ambrosia helps, Eliot thinks: the electric, nauseating twist of Brian's pain ebbing away enough that, at last, as Eliot is wrapping the quilt around them, the cloak, Brian can whisper, "You—saved me"; as Eliot bends down to press his mouth to Brian's: coppery and unpleasant and necessary, upside-down. "You keep saving me," Brian repeats; and Eliot swallows. "Baby," Brian says; and Eliot shakes his head.

"Whenever I can," he says, thick. "I always want to, my love"; and Brian curls up his sticky hand against Eliot's aching cheek, and then falls into a taut, unrestful sort of sleep.

Eliot presses their foreheads together. Curled nearly in half: _Gods_. Ben fucking Harwood. Eliot pets Brian's blood-sticky hair from his face, then draws the quilt tighter around them. He blinks up at the red sky, wet and wavering, Brian heavy and solid against his folded-up legs and his chest: _God_ , Eliot is thinking, _I'm going to fucking_ kill _him_.

Day into night into day, sort of. The suns don't go down together, so it never really gets dark, just—dimmer, colder; while every handful of hours Brian starts to shift, restless, as the pain starts to come back. Eliot hovers at the edges of his mind and pulls what he can: _sleep, sleep, sleep, you need to—_ ; and when it gets too huge for Eliot to draw enough of it to make a difference he kisses Brian's forehead, his temple, until Brian comes into a tense, nightmarish kind of half-wakefulness, just enough so that Eliot can coax him into drinking: water, ambrosia, water; kissing the edges of his mouth. "You saved me," Brian tells him, "you—came for me, they pushed us apart but you _saved_ me" and Eliot nods and nods, an uncomfortable, hackling tension crawling the wrong way up his back, and kisses him whispering, "Always—of course, love, always." Once Brian whispers, "Tell me—tell—a story. Tell me about—Martin. Martin and Denton"; and Eliot's back prickles up-up-up. He is—

—he is—

—he is reaching, in in in: that lovely warmbright space where he can still find them inside him, but it is empty, _empty_ : now, here; empty with the salty-metallic reality of Brian's vast, throbbing hurts: _Denton_ , Eliot is thinking, frantically digging-digging-digging, and _Martin_ — _Martin_ —: but nothing comes. There is a hole inside him in the shape of a house the windows dimmed, the floors dusty, candles dark: and so with his brain a blank white whirling blizzard of nothing nothing nothing, helpless with Brian against him aching so deep he gasps when he breathes, Eliot lies—and lies—and lies. Stories. They're just stories, aren't they? Once upon a time—once upon a time, Denton and Martin, Martin and Denton, once upon a time: and fluttering Eliot can't stop won't stop because Brian, Brian _asked_ him to so Eliot lies over and over and over with the whole aching throbbing heart of him until Brian calms down enough to drop back into sleep. 

Brian is mending, he thinks. Slowly. The cuts on his throat and his chest were the deepest, but within two days they've knotted up into fiery red scabs: raised, but not too hot when Eliot puts his hands on them: no infection. The long slashes where Ben had laid Brian open wrist to elbow are healed, nearly, their edges new and puffy and pink; the shrapnel-spray constellation of cuts all over the rest of him already fading to bruised-looking reddish lines. They're running out of ambrosia. When Brian wakes up on the fourth day, his eyes are clear when he looks at Eliot, almost. Eliot makes Brian drink the last of the ambrosia, and then Eliot eats the last half of a pear.

"Where are we," Brian whispers; and Eliot bends to press his mouth to Brian's forehead, dried and crusted in places, still salty and metallic with blood.

"Nowhere important," Eliot says, and then, throat clogged, he whispers, "I'm so sorry, baby, I didn't—I don't want, I don't want to hurt you, I don't, I _don't_ , I want—I want to protect you, I'll do anything to protect you"; and Brian wraps his hand up with Eliot's, and squeezes it tight.

"I know," he says, his eyes slipping closed again, "he wasn't you"; and Eliot squeezes his eyes shut tight.

"He's a monster," Eliot whispers, "he's an _animal_ , he's—he's just—he's— _sick_ , how could he ever've—"; and Brian pulls Eliot's hand to his mouth, kissing the inside of his wrist.

"You saved me," Brian says. Warm on his skin. "I don't care about him."

" _God_ ," Eliot says, and then shudders all over, bending down to press to him in kiss after shaking, desperate kiss. "Baby," breaking in his mouth: "Brian, my love—I can't—I don't know how to— _stop_ him, he's still— _there_ , I want, I want to— _skin_ him, I want him dead, Brian, _Gods_ —"

"Shh." Brian strokes his hot face. "Shh, Eliot. He doesn't matter. It's okay. You saved me. You saved me, sweetheart": and Eliot gasps against Brian's warm cheek, squeezing his wet welling-up aching eyes shut tight.

He breathes. Breathes. Breathes: Ben _fucking_ Harwood; and Brian's blood all over their skin and their clothes and the rocks. With Eliot hunched over him with his growing-slashing-hot horns driving against the insides of his skull as Ben Harwood is pulling against his hips and his ribs and his liver, the tangled purpleblack knot of him coiling—so Eliot tears, as he is trying to rise—so Eliot pulls rips _shreds_ , as he keeps wanting to—but Eliot is still hunched over holding his patchwork skin together over armor-thick scales with his dripping poison breath with his mouth pressed against the corner of Brian's wide warm mouth breathing in lovely shallow warm huffs, because Brian has fallen back asleep.

Eliot closes his eyes. Breathing in deep. Sitting up, a little, to wave the bottom of the cloak closer-tighter around Brian's legs and feet, so he'll stay warm enough while he sleeps.

Above them, the two suns burn low in the sky, either side. Henry Fogg is looking for them, and—and the other one. The girl. She's not important, and anyway, Eliot can't remember her name. They're out of ambrosia, and the water's almost gone; Eliot really doesn't need to eat much, but four days straight of trying to keep Brian safe and alive and mostly not bleeding, and he's still made his way through all their food. Eliot has barely moved since—since, because it makes Brian's hurts throb a clammy, sickening yellow when he does and now Eliot's back aches, and his hips, and his knees. _Bodies_ , he thinks, disgusted: what are they good for, anyway, besides touching Brian's.

Brian naps for another hour or two; and then, when he next stirs, Eliot pets at his cheek.

"Mm." Swallowing. "I like that," Brian says, very quietly; and Eliot swallows.

"Brian," he says. "I have to move you."

Brian is quiet for a minute. Then he takes a long, slow breath: "This is going to hurt, isn't it," he says, voice wavering; and Eliot cups his cheek and whispers, "Not _one sliver more_ than it has to, I promise." He swallows. "And—I think I can find somewhere for us to get clean, at least."

Brian sighs. "Okay," he says. "Yeah, I—I'd like that."

Eliot kisses his forehead; and then he holds him, arms tail magic wings, as together they shift Brian by millimeters up to unsteady feet.

Brian puts his hands on Eliot's face, and Eliot shivers. "You're all glowy," Brian says, soft; petting, again, at the thin aching skin under Eliot's sore human eyes.

"I've been—using it a lot," Eliot explains; and Brian tips his chin up in the way that he does when he wants Eliot to kiss him so Eliot bends down so that he won't try to force his weight up onto his toes. "We're going to have to make a few stops," Eliot says, "and the second one is going to be very, very dangerous, so I need you to be very good and very quiet and let me look after you, okay?"; and then, when Brian nods at him, very slowly, Eliot calls the pack over, the top folding itself up tightening closed as he slings it over his shoulder. "I just want to make it as hard as I can for them to catch us," Eliot explains.

Brian swallows. "What do you need me to do?" he asks.

"Just hold on," Eliot says, "don't be brave, okay? I'll take care of you"; and then he tightens his arms around Brian's warm back.

They jump, first, to Fillory. 

Right away he feels it curling-open winding-around drawing-itself-up for him: the deep, thrumming pulse of Fillory's magic, petting purring against him. There are so many places he could refill their waterskins—the Font of All Knowledge, the Honey River, the Wellspring—but instead he helps Brian to sit on a rock at the muddy the edge of a broad, flat stretch of the south bend of the Crooked River, running through the Southern Orchard, where Eliot knew that he would find it widening just past a curve. Here, the river runs deep and flat and wide, slow, good for swimming: lush high green grass carpeting soft earth from the banks all the way back to the edge of the woods; and beyond that, moss and pebbles and the low rustling rabbit-filled brush that lines the little dirt footpath tracing a slow, meandering half-mile stroll beneath the sheltering trees, to a little cottage, with a thatched roof, where no one lives anymore.

"Where are we?" Brian asks, as Eliot tucks the cloak around him; and Eliot says, "Home."

Brian doesn't say anything. Instead, he watches as Eliot fills all four waterskins and fits them back into the pack; listening, all the while, very carefully. No one coming, not yet. Eliot can't give Brian his knife, not three and a half days later; so Eliot pulls a spell over him instead: safe, cozy, hidden, shielded, safe. 

"What are you doing?" Brian asks.

"I have to go into the village," Eliot says. "Not far, but—too far for you, I think. Tiring."

"I don't want you to leave me," Brian says, very quietly; and Eliot kisses his forehead. Thinking.

Thinking.

"I could—leave part of me with you, maybe," he says, hesitant. Quiet. Rubbing their noses together: brushing against the edges of Brian's Brian-ness, where he is bright-achy and tired and nauseated. "Just—just here," Eliot whispers, "just like this," as Brian is breathing in deep-deep-deep wide-eyed, clutching at Eliot's shirtfront. Eliot kisses him again, coiling against-under-against-under against him, smelling—oranges, salt; as he whispers, "I won't go in."

"You can come in," Brian replies, low and rough, wide-eyed; and Eliot—could, he _could_ , he could push open the taut-warmslick edges of Brian's wiry, stubborn, familiar mind, just—just to taste him, but.

"No, love." Eliot kisses him, very gently. "I don't want to—to—I want you to go back to sleep"; and Brian sighs into his mouth. "I'll be right back," Eliot says, "it's not far," and then kisses him again, putting his hands out to soften the rock underneath Brian's bright-achy battered body. "You need the rest. I'll just—let me keep watch, okay? Just. Just here, just like this." Petting the crest of Brian's hot cheek, with that little hungry wagging part of himself just—just tucking itself up close to him. Its ears alert, as Brian closes his eyes.

Blinking. Once. Twice: "Okay," Brian says, thick. His voice is already slowing down: Eliot—Eliot has to—it takes more doing, than it did with Sam: to just keep that one little eager humming tentacle coiled just—just around him: _keep, keep him, keep watch_ : and not let any part of it go in. Eliot strokes Brian's hair back, as Brian tucks his hands under his cheek, curling his knees up towards his chest; and then Eliot pulls the quilt up over him the cloak over his hands the spell-shield over all of it as that little half-split part of him is shifting in and around him until low-down deep in his ribcage Eliot can feel Brian's warm sleepy breath and the slow scattered dreaming thrum of his thoughts, as he doesn't—doesn't look. No, don't look, don't dig, don't tear into him: you don't need to see. Then Eliot pulls on his old clean face, his old worn clean clothes, his old sturdy suspenders and his well-worn comfortable boots; and goes south. 

He didn't lie to Brian, this time: it's not far. He walks down through the Orchard with his power making a net about him as Ora's pack gets heavier and heavier, _thunk—thunk—thunk_ , to a cozy little village of listing roofs clustered close together. Eliot tightens the illusion around himself; and comes back to the river and the rock two hours later with a cloud-soft green cloak—much nicer than Ora's—that he'd got for an anti-caterpillar working on Tristam Worthwright's broad beans; a loaf of bread he'd got in exchange for Ora's old boots; a bottle each of willowbark and poppy-syrup and Myrkal's Miracle Oil that he'd outright stolen, because three generations later and the Applevale apothecary was _still_ a total cock; and lump of soap and a half-wheel of cheese that Endiya Laurent— _Gods_ , so like Kavli—had given him in exchange for half of his gathered apples. Beside the river, Brian is still asleep, hidden under Eliot's whole heart. When Eliot crouches at last beside him, he pulls him back into himself and then wakes Brian, very gently, so he can help him out of his crusted-over torn-up bloodstained clothes.

The river's never been warm. Eliot does his best to make it warmer. Brian's back still prickles up under his hands, his shoulders hunching inward, so Eliot makes him warmer, too. Brian sighs, slumping back against him. Aching all over, Eliot sluices lukewarm river-water up over the soap-suds in Brian's hair, and then shivering all over kisses the muddy-tasting wet back of his neck. Then Eliot shaves him, very very carefully, with his hands. When he's clean Brian sleeps again, bare under the new green cloak on the rock, while—soap-and-magic—Eliot washes and dries the quilt, Ora's cloak, his own hair, every scrap of their clothing, which he spell-mends as best he can, even though when it comes to fabric, nothing really can match time and needle and thread. Then, at the end, Eliot flattens out the surface of the river so he can see to shave himself, too, even though—even though _Brian_ never really seems to mind.

Brian's muscles have stiffened up again, when Eliot comes back to help him back into his jeans. "Fuck," he gasps, " _fuck_ ," panting; and Eliot presses their foreheads together, rubbing Myrkal's Miracle Oil into his back and his ass and his shoulders and his thighs, warming every part of him he can touch. Brian can still barely stand it, even with Eliot, hungry, halfway to inside him: curled up close to Brian's little warm human mind and pulling at his pain, pulling at his pain, pulling at his pain. It helps, a little, but the arduous process of getting dressed is still enough to leave Brian grey-faced and shivering, so, on his magic-cushioned sun-warmed rock, Eliot tears off an end of the bread, cuts out a wedge of the cheese, slices an apple into quarters and then eighths and then feeds it to him and then, when Brian's managed to eat about half of what Eliot'd like and drunk two not-quite-hot-enough cups of chamomile tea, Eliot gives Brian a very small, very careful dose of the poppy, and then coaxes Brian's head down into his lap.

"They won't find us here," Brian asks, his voice already thickening, slow.

They will find them here. That's the point. But it'll take them a while, so— "Get some sleep," Eliot says, very gently, pulling the quilt and the cloaks together up to the crest of Brian's hunched shoulders. Brian nods, slow—slow—slow; and Eliot tucks the covers tight around him again and then lets him, when Brian grabs clumsily at Eliot's taut and aching right hand.

The sun sets. The stars come out. Eliot stares up at them, trying to remember their names on Fillory; and can't.

He feels the portal near dawn. Stars up, still, shimmering; but the sky is lightening in the east, just ahead of the eggy wet edges of the sun. Eliot cups Brian's face: "Time to go, my love," he says; and then helps him up to his feet while Brian is still blinking, round-eyed, adorably confused. Eliot tucks the cloaks around his shoulders, green one first, then Ora's, then their quilt over all of it to keep him warm-warm-warm, and then he tucks Brian against him, so that when Henry Fogg first steps into the clearing, Eliot is ready; and they step just to the side. 

The Neitherlands is cold, and still mostly ruins; but Eliot takes Brian by one sleepy-soft hand and leads him past fountain after bashed-up barely-filling ruin of a fountain.

"This is incredible," Brian says, voice hushed, when they stop, finally, to fold the quilt into Eliot's traveling pack. Eliot brushes against Brian, just—just a bit: awed; nervous; afraid, a little—and then pulls back, flinching, hating himself. Hating himself. Outside with their bodies Eliot squeezes Brian's warm nimble clever hand. "What is this place?" Brian asks.

"Um—Grand Central Station," Eliot says; and then blinks. _Grand central what?_ "The fountains are what humans use for portals," he explains: better; and turns back to give Brian a hand up onto the hill running opposite the paved staircase they'd come down.

"So these go to—other worlds?"

Eliot squeezes his fingers. "Yeah, baby. All sorts."

Atop the hill, Brian bends over the fountain to Heliotropent, a miserable pit of a backwater that Eliot mostly remembers for the taste of blood and shit in his mouth; and Eliot slips an arm around his waist. "Not that one," Eliot says, quiet; just as a boy slides out from around the other side.

"Hello," says the boy.

_Careful_. "Hello," Eliot agrees.

Lazily, the boy tilts up his chin. Says, "You have to pay a toll, if you want to use the fountains."

Brian's arm has come up. Across Eliot's chest: protective, Eliot realizes, with a pang; and then cups the edge of Brian's warm skull. As though Eliot isn't the most dangerous thing in almost any world he goes to: the boy is _maybe_ fourteen, and Brian still doesn't even have his knife. 

Brian doesn't drop his arm, though. Eliot pulls Brian gently back against him, brushing a kiss to his hair; then tells the kid, "Not worth your time. Just passing through."

The boy tilts his head. He's skinny, sharp-eyed: the tall half-grown ragged sliver of a beast that Eliot remembers being, at that age. "Toll for that, too," the boy drawls, and comes another step closer. He's wearing a worn-out dirty shirt and someone's patched-over too-big leathers, and the way he turns shows off the ball-and-chain flail he's holding dangling beside his right thigh: _honestly_. Kids these days.

"Oh, go home and clean your room," Brian says. He sounds just as disgusted as Eliot feels. "There is _no way_ you're going to get past him with _that_ fucking thing, so—"

The kid lifts up the flail and swings; and Eliot has a sudden sharphot terrifying surge of _Brian blood brains bone broken—no,_ baby—and then he is blinking, half-shivering, cradling Brian's face to his chest, as the leftovers of the boy are sliding down to the paving stones in a series of wet, pulpy smacks.

Brian—pulls—

"No, don't look," Eliot whispers, heart pounding, squeezing him— _tight_ : and "I want, I _want_ to," Brian gasps, "I want—I _wanted_ him dead, he was going to— _hurt_ you—"

"Shh, he didn't." Eliot kisses his forehead, and Brian's arms come up tight-warm-clinging around the prickling-up warm sun glowing inside Eliot's waist. "He didn't get a chance, we're okay, don't look."

Brian presses his mouth to the notch between Eliot's collarbones, breathing in deep; and Eliot closes his eyes, shifting them—sideways, just a little bit, so that he can let Brian lift his head up to kiss him, blinking up at him with those big, irresistible brown eyes.

"Don't." Eliot kisses him. "Don't be brave, okay? Let me keep you safe."

Brian's hand tightens on the back of his neck. "I'm not going to let you let some idiot high schooler hurt you for me," he says, rough and fierce, and heart winding up knot-tight in his chest, Eliot cups Brian's face. 

"I know": soft all over, soft inside; "I know you won't, love." 

Breathing out. Brian presses his face to Eliot's throat.

Eliot rubs his shoulders. His spine. They're on a rise, just: the Heliotropent fountain below them looking down over another of the terraced fountains that Eliot barely remembers: trailing all his arms through it, centuries before they came for him. Looking down, he can see—acres. Acres and acres of fountains, half of them smashed down to rubble and dust: far, far away, down by Alpha Centauri and Xibalba, he can see the magic starting to patch things together again, the paving stones quivering back into paths, the crumbling statuary straightening itself up. Beside them is the fountain to Valinor: "You're not going to like the next part," Eliot tells Brian, quiet; loosening his arms just enough to let Brian look up at him, his stubborn, wide-eyed determined little face.

"Because it hurts you," Brian says, flat; and Eliot cups his cheek.

"Just a little bit," he says, very gently; and then slides the bag around his side.

He's been keeping Brian's knife safe, since—since. Away from Brian's clever-soft tender human hands. Eliot cuts through the meat of his own right palm again, and Brian flinches back: "I know," Eliot says, throat aching. "I know, it's okay, it's okay, Brian. I'm sorry. I'm sorry": holding his hand up to Brian's pulled-flat-tight white mouth.

" _Eliot_ ," he says, rough and painful, his eyes flicking down—up—down again, red seeping up his cheeks like water through tissue.

"I need you to swallow it," Eliot says, "just—just a little," as gently as he can: "just so you can take your knife."

Brian's eyes widen. He looks back down at the knife in Eliot's hand, then back up at Eliot's face, and then he—reaches—

—and Eliot jerks it away, startled, holding it up over Brian's head. "What the actual fuck," Eliot says, flat; and Brian says, "I can't hold my own fucking _knife_ without _drinking your blood_?"

"Well," Eliot says, tight all through his chest, "I know that my psychotic sexually-repressed brainwashed alter-ego trying to _dice_ you really put a crimp in our schedule, sexually speaking, but me coming inside you would work, too."

Brian flushes scarlet. "That," he says, " _that_ , then—what, you think I don't care if it _hurts_ you?"

"I think if I try to fuck you right now _Henry fucking Fogg_ is going to wind up finding us while you're squirming on my dick—oh, of course, of _course_ you're into that," Eliot says, exasperated, because Brian's eyes are darting up to his, bright and hot and glittering, pupils big and dark. Eliot shoves his hand up towards Brian's pink mouth, which Brian is already licking, leaving it pink and shiny and almost desperately appealing: _fuck_ him, seriously, fuck _everything_ , Gods. "I'll let you squirm on my dick as much as you want later," Eliot tells him, "but for now, will you just drink some blood so we can get out of here?"

"Are you this pushy with Quentin?" Brian mutters, but he opens his mouth over the cut, doesn't he; and then licks, and then swallows, staring at Eliot the entire time with his red cheeks and hot eyes and a brutal, flatly murderous expression. 

Eliot holds his hand there long enough for Brian to get down four shallow swallows, enough that the flush is draining away from his face to leave him just looking stressed-out and queasy. Then Eliot lets his hand drip onto the edge of a fountain while he's trying to persuade Brian to eat another chunk of bread and take a dose of the poppy, or willowbark at least— "these shoes have been through enough lately without you hurling on them—," which Brian agrees to, finally, if Eliot does something about his hand. So, while Eliot is calling out the last strip from Ora's old tunic, trying to get it wrapped up over the cut, Brian eats his breakfast: hunched over, looking irritated, watching Eliot. He's still got blood on his chin.

"For the record," Brian says, a little thickly, when he's finished the bread: Eliot hands him the waterskin, so that he can swallow. " _For the record_ ," Brian repeats, "I would _way_ rather suck you off in creepy ruins then have you keep whacking your hands open—oh my God, will you just come here," exasperated; and when Eliot goes over to him, back hot and prickling, Brian yanks the bandage off and then presses Eliot's welling skin back together with his fingers and a bitter, burnt-coffeeish surge of magic.

It doesn't catch.

Brian shifts. Eliot's heart is sinking in his chest. "I," Brian says, and then tries again: Eliot feels a scattering pinpricking rush roiling out through his body, as his hand oozes up under Brian's fingers.

Eliot folds his left hand over Brian's. "It's okay," he says, very gently. "It's okay. Just help me with the bandage."

"Why isn't it _working_ ," Brian asks, sounding— _furious_ , miserable, and Eliot bends down to kiss his forehead.

"Because you haven't got any training," Eliot says. "It's totally normal, don't worry, it'll just tend to come and go until you do. It's fine, baby, really. Just help me with the bandage."

Brian swallows, a wet, miserable sound. "Okay," he whispers, and then helps Eliot wrap up his palm, tight enough that it doesn't hurt anymore, nearly. 

When they've got it wound up, Brian bends down to kiss over the winding-around fabric, and the tense, side-to-side lashing feeling in Eliot's ribcage subsides, slightly. "I'd just have to open it up again if you had healed it," Eliot tells him, as gently as he can, "to—we need to give them something to follow"; just as Brian is straightening up, letting go of Eliot's aching hand.

"If you do I'm just going to have to keep yelling at you about it, aren't I," Brian mutters; and then sighs. Tucking his hair back, not looking at him.

Eliot cups the back of Brian's bent neck. His head, tugging him in: Brian goes, a little warm, tense, unhappy-feeling planetoid, coming to rest against Eliot's spongey chest. 

"I'm sorry, baby," Eliot says, quiet. Kissing the edge of his forehead. 

Brian sighs, but after a moment, he wraps his arm around Eliot's middle. Pressing closer.

"Can we go, now," Brian asks, muffled. "I fucking hate this place."

"Yeah." Eliot squeezes the nape of his neck, pets down over the back of his shoulder. "Yeah, we should—you want to see something cool?"

"Does this one involve you slicing bits of yourself off, or," Brian says, but he takes Eliot's hand, doesn't he. Eliot squeezes, leading him down over the steps, down two fountains, across four, up a long winding path to the crest of the next hill over, and then down two terraced levels to the Makarian portal: an ewer overflowing into the fountain's broad, glistening bowl. Eliot unwinds the bandage, and then his heart thuds, hot. The cut's sealed up again, while neither of them was paying attention. 

"Oh," Brian says. "Did I—"

"Yeah," Eliot says, "that's pretty normal too—hey, sit down for a second," touching the edge of the fountain: and Brian sits. He looks—tired, and pale, again, and Eliot crouches in front of him, cupping his chin. "Are you hurting again?" Eliot asks; but then—awful, _awful_ : Brian's eyes well up wet-shiny and he jerks his head to the side, squeezing them shut tight. 

"Oh," Eliot says, startled; and then.

Stops.

Brian takes a deep, quavering breath. Lets it out, slow; and then opens his eyes. 

"This is where you open it up again, isn't," Brian says, mouth twisting; and then puts his palm against Eliot's cheek.

"It really bothers you," Eliot murmurs, and Brian takes another too-fast jerky breath, his flush rising up again.

"When—when you were gone," Brian says, "and Ben—"

He stops, his mouth twisting; as Eliot's heart starts beating twice as loud, triple time; and Brian brushes his knuckles down Eliot's cheek.

"He didn't know me," Brian says. Voice thick. "He had no fucking idea who I was, and all I could think was: _this is what it's like, this is what it's like for him,_ this _, oh, God, this is fucking_ awful," Brian says; and then squeezes his eyes shut tight, shoulders hunching. "It was awful, it was _awful_ , Eliot, you didn't—you'd come for me, you came for me, you _saved_ me and you kept me and you loved me, you—you've spent—weeks and weeks and _weeks_ fighting through—evil fucking magic that keeps making me forget—everything important, that you keep having to _rip_ out of your _actual body_ , that keeps you from fucking— _talking_ to me, and you didn't even get your fucking _soulmate_ back and—God, Eliot, I had about—about fifteen fucking _seconds_ where you didn't remember me and God, _God_ , I fucking wanted to die, Jesus fucking Christ."

Eliot turns, a little. Just enough to kiss the soft skin of Brian's inner wrist, and Brian slides his fingers up into Eliot's hair. Petting. Petting: and Eliot shivers against it, feeling—

—animal. A wild thing, wanting to be tamed.

"I have to believe," Brian says, voice thick, clogged-sounding. "I _have_ to believe that you know how I feel, Eliot, when I have to sit around watching you get hurt."

Eliot swallows. Kneeling up: a kiss, soft. "I'm sorry": whispered, soft. Soft: Brian's hand is tightening—dizzying—in his hair. His breath—

Eliot rubs their noses together. "Remember how I said we didn't really have time to fuck, here," he says; and Brian laughs, a wet-clogged, miserable sound. Eliot tightens his arms around him: "Shh. It'll be okay."

Brian takes a breath. "I want to do it," he says, unsteady. "If anyone's going to—to slice you open it should at least be someone who doesn't want to—to _hurt_ you, I want to, I want to do it."

His voice cracks. Ducking his face down: it drips, and he wipes at it. Flushing.

Eliot swallows. "Okay," he says, after a second, and rests his right hand, palm up, on Brian's warm knee.

Brian takes a breath. Another. Then he fumbles the knife out of his belt, clumsy. Looking down at Eliot's palm: he touches the red line, shivering. "Won't it hurt?" he asks. "If it—if I do it there."

Eliot swallows. "I need my lead hand in one piece, baby," he explains, very gently; and Brian flinches. "Hey." Eliot rubs his knee. "You don't have to do it, I'm perfectly capable of—" and Brian slashes across his skin and then drops the knife, white-faced. "Good—that was good," Eliot tells him, "oh—shh, that was good, it barely hurts at all, love, it's okay, I'm okay, _really_ ": lowering his hand as Brian is pressing his hot face against him, shivering. Shivering. Eliot closes his fist by Brian's leg, light: letting it drip. Drip. Drip. Kissing Brian's face with wetness running down the side of his fingers, Brian's tense heavy arms wound tight around him, his mouth huffing raggedly against Eliot's hollow throat, before Eliot reaches back down to pass him the knife.

"Can I try to heal it yet?" Brian whispers; and Eliot tucks the ends of Brian's hair back.

"I've got a better idea." Eliot helps Brian up to standing; and then Eliot steps up onto the edge of the fountain, and holds down his whole left hand.

On the other side, the hills roll up into Makaria's tall-shadowed mountains. Eliot's palm is still wet: plishing against the slippery stones along the banks of the river. Eliot leads Brian down to the edge of the water and then crouches, rinsing his palm, swirling it through the fast cold ripples: "See?" He lifts his hand up; and Brian sighs, and crouches down next to him, rubbing a thumb along narrow faint pink lines.

"Healing waters?" Brian asks; and Eliot says, "Let's fill up one of the waterskins," and then turns to kiss Brian's warm cheek.

The walk from the fountain-portal to the Mouth of the World, on Makaria, is only about three miles, but Brian still tires so easily that it takes them the better part of two hours. Opening his own portals would defeat the purpose, honestly, so Eliot just keeps his arm slung around Brian's back. Rests with him, for a while, in one of Makaria's spectacular wildflower meadows, a dense knee-high carpet of riotous color, tucked between high loamy black peaks. 

"Why can't we stay here?" Brian asks, head tucked against Eliot's chest; and Eliot rubs his hand down Brian's warm back.

"Everyone knows about Makaria," Eliot says. "You like it?" 

"It's beautiful," Brian says.

It is. Warmer, here, than the pocket world's broad valley; if they stayed past noon it'd get hot, really: truly hot, in the way Eliot hasn't been since Ibi—iz—since Ib—since—in a long time. Lying out in the sun on the quilt like this is dangerous: the air is clean and sweet-smelling, everywhere around them the sunny calendula and bright orange poppies waving in the wind; brushing against bobbing blue hyacinths, fat furry wild orchids. It feels like someone let them lie down in a rainbow.

"I thought you'd like it," Eliot murmurs; and Brian's arm tightens around his waist.

After a rest, they walk. Another forty-five minutes and they come to the huge, stone-hewn arch of the Mouth of the World: some long-dead denizen of Makaria had carved it to look like the head of a leopard, some thirty feet high, its mouth held wide open, the hills stretching behind it its long sinuous spotted body and tail. Brian brushes his palm along the edge of a fang, light. 

"This is," Brian says, and then stops. "Why do I—um. _Remember_ , I feel like I know this place, do I know this place?"

Eliot hesitates. Licks his lips. "You might, um." He clears his throat. "Leopards and wine, I mean. There are probably—associations, I think."

"Associations," Brian echoes; and Eliot shifts.

"When I was younger, Makaria was kept sacred to Dionysus," he explains. "And the rivers ran with nectar and wine." Huffing a laugh. "Which would've saved us a lot of time at—" Brakebills—: "school," Eliot says, and then.

Stops.

Brian squints up at him. "When you were younger," he echoes, voice flat. "What, when you, like, played tag with Hermes, or"; and Eliot looks up at the mountains, his heart a hard sharp ache in his chest.

"No," he says, finally. "I never played tag with Hermes."

After a second, Brian takes Eliot's right hand. "El." Turning his palm up. "Are you human?" Brian asks, very quietly, and then looks up at him. 

Eliot's chest tightens. Tightens.

"You came to New York to save me," Brian says, "and you took me past the edges of the world, and you put my blood back inside me—"

"I'm human," Eliot says quickly.

Brian nods. "I mean, you don't have to be," he says, "that'd be okay," as he squeezes Eliot's fingers. "I think—I think I should've asked you a long time ago. But." He swallows. "But Martin was a magician," he says, "and that was already pretty—extraordinary, so"; and then laughs, and rubs at his forehead. "But you're—you're not like me, quite. Are you."

Eliot stares up at the roof of the leopard's stone mouth. "Let's go through," he says, after a second, and then, shifting a little, he turns his hand up and asks, "Do you want me to do it?"

Brian doesn't. His hand is steadier, this time.

Picking through the ruins of the Neitherlands with Brian's hand in his damp already-healed right hand, Eliot can't seem to look at the low, squirming feeling in his chest. Brian's hand is very solid and very warm, and he stays close, the green cloak wrapped tight around him and the bag slung over his chest; and when Eliot holds out his hand again beside the only painted fountain in the place, Brian doesn't even protest, just takes his knife out of his belt and cuts—quick, not too deep—along the meat of Eliot's right hand; and then fumbles out the waterskin, so that as soon as Eliot has let his hand drip onto the rim of the fountain, Brian is ready to splash the waters of Makaria across the cut. On the other side of the fountain, the abandoned city rises up hundreds of feet, painted with intricate, spiraling designs in emerald and lapis and vermillion: a fractalish pattern growing out from the size of one of a child's fingernail up to entire, cliff-high stone walls. Brian presses close to him, silent; and Eliot winds an arm around his shoulders.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Gorgeous," Brian says. "Also—creepy. There's no one here?"

Eliot shakes his head. "The builders abandoned it," he says, "a long time ago. Safe enough, for a while."

It's true, luckily enough. He hadn't meant for them to sleep in the City, but after climbing staircase after staircase after staircase, and then finally having to levitate them both up the last few hundred steps, Brian is tremblingly exhausted, and Eliot isn't all that much better. The highest tier of the city, laid out around the base of the icon, is painted burgundy and white and purple, glinting with inset glass and flourishes of gold leaf. This close to sunset, the entire plaza glows like gemstones, the eyes of the statue a deep, shivering black, her feathers casting sharp, cold shadows across the wind-trembling water in the still pool at her base.

"Is she a goddess?" Brian asks. "Or just... a really fucking impressive bird?"

Eliot shakes his head. "Neither, now." He takes a breath. "Just a statue.

"Who was she?" Brian asks, hushed; and Eliot swallows.

"Aiah the Bright," he says, when he can, "who gave birth to the spider who brought the night on her back." Eliot rubs at his eyes. "Kinuna," he says, and his voice cracks.

Brian doesn't say anything, at first. "What happened to her?"

Eliot takes a step back. "I don't know," he says. "They all—left, the gods left. Aiah left. And then her people left, too. But the City... the City's still here, isn't it." Spread out gleaming and beautiful around them: the work of mortal hands.

"And." Brian shifts. "Kinuna. What happened to her?"

Eliot is looking up at Aiah's stern sharp kestrel face, the indigo marks either side of her beak, the soft red-and-golden spatters of color along her milky white chest. The long purple cloak of her folded wings and her tail. He'd always wondered why, in the icon, she kept her wings folded. Kinuna didn't know. They didn't know. No one knew.

"I killed her," Eliot says, finally, and then looks at Brian. 

After a second, Brian says, "Oh."

He doesn't pull away. Eliot reaches up, and touches Brian's cheek.

"If I wasn't human," he says, very quietly. "Not," Eliot says, "exactly"; and Brian's mouth twists.

"If you'd spent all that time before you saved me palling around the multiverse with gods and monsters, you mean?" Brian asks.

"Yeah," Eliot says. "Something like that."

Brian sidles up to him. Arm sliding around him, chin tilted—up: "And you still came for me," he murmurs, and then kisses Eliot, very gently.

Eliot pets his cheek. "It's all still inside me, though," he says, thick; and Brian nods.

"I know. You still came for me. Come on, let's find somewhere to sleep."

So—so they find somewhere to sleep. 

A little enclosed cupboard of a room at the edge of the plaza, because all the other chambers were vast; and over-decorated, floor-to-high-ceilings; and also _freezing_ : huge, wide-open windows looking out over the terraced levels of the city, its wide glittering paved streets. Eliot doesn't know if their little chamber was once a room for a servant or a priest or a junior and unfavored advisor, but the only window is a long, narrow strip, nearly as tall as Brian but probably only four inches wide, and edged with chips of obsidian; and the walls are painted, but not inset. It's cozy enough, and almost certainly the best they're likely to find: the builders had been obsessed with what they could see, and a room with no opening to the outside would be—blasphemy, to them. Eliot builds them a fire in the little open hearth, and then uses the last of his energy to make them a bed: a real bed, a good bed, the kind of bed that Brian ought to sleep in: dense and soft, almost as wide as the whole of the room, stuffed with clean sweet-smelling straw. Sitting by the hearth, wrapped up in both of their cloaks, Brian is using his knife to hack up the bread and the cheese. The open gash of the window is letting the cold in, but Eliot keeps trying to get a barrier spell to stick to it, and can't. 

"Don't worry about it," Brian says. "We can huddle up." 

So they huddle up, on Eliot's magic-made bed: lying between their cloaks, under their quilt, Brian curls his back against Eliot's thighs and hips and hollow hungry ribcage; and Eliot wraps his arm tight-tight-tight around Brian's warm waist to keep him warm, and buries his face in Brian's soft hair. 

He wakes to sunlight streaming along every gleaming curl of the murals, the obsidian edge of the window glinting a deep, warm, bottomless black; and Brian sitting up cross-legged at the end of the bed, holding Eliot's feet in his lap.

Eliot swallows. "Hey," he manages, thick. "What're you—"

"Nothing." Brian rubs his hand up to Eliot's ankle, then back again.

"You're holding my feet," Eliot observes. Thick. Still half-asleep.

Brian licks over his bottom lip, and squeezes. "You're just—I like your feet."

Eliot blinks at him. His feet? 

"They're so like you," Brian says. "You know, sort of—long, and thin, and. Uh. Pretty." 

He's turning pink. Eliot is—he doesn't know. He doesn't know. Quentin never—Brian scrapes his thumbnail along Eliot's left sole, and Eliot twitches. 

"Come here," he says, thick; and Brian.

Goes.

"At—uh," Brian says, after. "At the wedding." Interlacing their fingers: pushing them together, pulling them apart. 

Eliot tucks his chin against his chest, looking down at him. "The wedding?"

"Yeah," Brian says. He's very pink. "You—when I was. Ill, you told me about—about the wedding. Denton and Martin's wedding."

Even in the moment, Eliot suspects that later, this will become one of those things that will haunt him: the absolute, utter blankness inside him that greets the statement, _You told me about Denton and Martin's wedding_. There is a split second where Eliot has absolutely no memory of any part of what Brian is talking about; and then: "Oh," he remembers: he remembers _lying_ ; "—oh, I—" he says; and then he stops.

"You said," Brian says, "that—that they had a friend. That she tied our hands together. Their hands."

Eliot. Eliot had tied their hands. Had he—he hadn't even remembered that, had he? He remembers—blood, everywhere, _Quentin's_ blood; and that white-static wall of agony and terror. He remembers—looking into himself, deep-deep-deep, the tender-soft treasured parts of himself that keep, keep Brian, keep _Quentin_ safe; and finding—nothing. Nothing. Nothing he could use. So he had—he'd thought—he'd told Brian: _Their friend, the best part of them, the most treasured and best-loved, she stood with them beside the river; and she tied their hands_ ; and kneeling there, Eliot had thought—he'd been desperate and furious and Brian had been bleeding against them and he had been so, so afraid—and Eliot had thought, then, there, that he had made that story up.

"Denton and Martin's hands," Eliot says. _It wasn't real_ , he wants to say, _it was a story, that never happened_ ; but he tries to unstick his jaw for speaking, and can't.

"Yeah," Brian says; and then squeezes Eliot's left hand.

"Brian," Eliot tries; and his jaw locks up tight.

Brian bends down to kiss Eliot's knuckles. "You came to New York to save me," he says, very quietly. "You came to New York to save me, and you took me to paradise." Still lying against him bare in their nest of cloaks and blankets, fragrant and sweaty: Brian's hair is sticking to the edges of his damp, flushed cheek. Helpless Eliot tucks it back behind his perfect curled shell of an ear, as Brian is saying, "And then our enemies came, and drove us out."

"Ora's not an enemy," Eliot says, fast.

Brian props himself up, a little. "Who?" 

"Ora," Eliot repeats. "The girl who came to the Castle with Henry Fogg. She's—"

Brian's eyebrows smush together, pulling down. "Do you mean—"

He stops, frowning.

"Yeah," Eliot says, "Ora. She's—"

He stops. A friend. Not a friend. A friend not a friend a friend not a friend a—

—friend?

_Can_ she be?

"I don't think her name was Ora," Brian says, uncertain; and the slow, deep, churning tidal pool of the spell in Eliot's belly lashes out, snarling— _rising_ —

"No—Bri— _knife_ ," Eliot gasps, reaching— _out_ —but Brian is there, there, there all at once: black-eyed and fierce and intent, holding the knife to Eliot's throat. "Oh," Eliot gasps, " _Gods_ —" as he holds himself there holds himself there holds himself there with the magic uncoiling unspooling reweaving knot-tangling pulling open and together and apart like—like—like Chandelier Cave where Ben'd gone diving and known that the water would be clear so long as he didn't disturb the bottom—and Ben had—he'd—

—he isn't—

He shoves Brian's wrist the knife its hand down—down—down, grinding out, "I need—you have to— _cut_ —"

—and Brian gasps, "Oh—fuck— _Eliot_ —"

"Please—please, my love, _please_ :" tasting metalashozone and feeling the rubber in his mouth where he—where Ben'd looked up-up-up at the soaring glittering stalactites and almost felt—full enough as Brian sobs out a ragged-edged animal noise and then—

—pushes—

—the knife—

—in.

Just in.

Eliot gasps. And he—

— _gasps_ —

"Baby," Brian says, queasy-bright hotyellow _agony_ , voice broken: as Eliot squeezes the back of his neck. 

"It's." Swallowing, looking down at the goldblackpurplered oozing out of him: _like Aiah_ , he thinks, _pretty_ , very high, and very far away. "S'okay," he manages, "it's—"

"I just shoved a knife in your stomach," Brian gasps, "it is _very definitely not okay_."

"Just—just a little more," Eliot explains, "you just have to—to cut _into_ it oh thank fuck"; as whimpering Brian pushes the knife in deeper, ripping into him until it just-catches the spell. Slicing. Slicing _into_ it: oh, thank fucking Jesus, that'll buy them a little more time. "Okay." Gasping. Gasping: Eliot kisses him. "Okay, okay—God, I didn't. I didn't mean to leave it this long. Fuck, that hurts"; "Can I take the knife out," Brian says, voice trembling, and Eliot tucks his hair back, sticky-fingered, and reminds him, "Waterskin, first": so that Brian scrambles naked off the bed and over for their pack so he can pour the last of the healing waters over Eliot's abdomen the second he— _agonizing_ —drags out the knife.

"Okay." Eliot breathes in, deep—slow—deep: "okay. I'm okay, Brian": because Brian is still pressing his hand over the whole wet skin of Eliot's middle, fingers trembling, slick and cold. They're both a bloody-pink drenched mess. The cloaks, too. Their quilt. Eliot kisses him: and Brian makes an airless, wounded noise: "I'm okay," Eliot whispers. "Really. _Really_ , love, it's okay. I'm okay."

"I am going to get you to teach me, I don't know, fucking fireball," Brian is telling him, "just so I can incinerate you and leave you for dead." Kissing him all over: the lids of his eyes and his mouth and his cheeks and his forehead and his mouth and his throat, his chest, the still-tender new seam in his abdomen. "You _fucking asshole_."

"Spell," Eliot says, "it was the—"; and Brian bites his bottom lip, thumbing his mouth open, and then licks his way back in.

"I want that off of you," Brian whispers. "I want it— _out_ —"

"Yeah. Yeah." Eliot kisses him, _kisses_ him: Brian's trembling hand pressed flat over the cut. "I want it out of me, too," Eliot whispers; and Brian makes a low wounded noise and then presses their foreheads together. Breathing. Hard.

"What do we have to do?" he asks. "Where can we—we weren't supposed to stay here. You said—"

"No," Eliot agrees.

"We need to go somewhere safe," Brian tells him. "Somewhere—where they can't get to us, where no one can— _hurt_ us, and then—then we need to figure out how to get that spell off, because I'm not going to keep fucking shoving a knife in your guts, El, I—I _can't_ , I just—"

"No," Eliot whispers, and then kisses him again: hot open-mouthed and warmwet all over, he wants—he wants to roll around with him in sunshine again, make love to him in the grass, show him—every beautiful thing in every wide-wondrous corner of the universe—

"I want us to be—somewhere defensible," Brian says, low and rough, "somewhere where—"

Eliot shakes his head. "They'll keep coming," he says, quiet.

"Then I want them dead," Brian says, fierce. "Anyone who—anyone who'd hurt you, who _has_ hurt you, I want them dead and I want this fucking spell _out_ of you, I want you—safe, and free, I want them all fucking— _destroyed_ , I want them to stop fucking _coming_ for you—"

Eliot kisses his temple. "Bloodthirsty," he says, aching; and Brian says, "For you? _Yes_." 

"Yeah." Eliot kisses him. Chest tight. "I know the feeling, baby."

"Then how?" Brian asks. "How do we do it?"; and Eliot lets out a long slow breath against the edge of Brian's soft mouth.

"We need to go to—" _The Library_ , he thinks, first; but the Library, of course, is poorly named: _Orwellian, really_ , he thinks; a sharp unstable soap-bubble-bursting un-thought. "To the Mouseion," Eliot says, finally; and squeezes his eyes shut tight. Breathing in, deep and slow, around the low, throbbing ache at the base of his skull. "What's left of it, anyway," quiet; and then blinks up at Brian. Brian's face is pale, mouth tight and flat, his big aching brown eyes: Eliot rubs a thumb along his lovely warm stubbled cheek. "In a minute, I mean," Eliot says, "we need to go in a minute," and then he asks, "um—you want me to—help you shave, or"; and Brian scrunches up his face, and scratches at his jaw: it's not that bad yet, really, but Brian always did look phenomenally stupid with the first few days of a beard. 

"I mean, if we have time," Brian says.

"We can make time," Eliot says, quiet.

"Don't burn yourself out," Brian says; but Eliot shakes his head.

"I won't, not on this," he agrees. He's slept. He's healed. He feels—good, nearly. "Not if I have something to eat."

Brian nods. He tilts his chin up. His mouth rough at the edges: familiar, sweet.

And so. So Eliot makes them time, and Brian cuts up the last of the bread and the cheese. After they've eaten, Brian slides into his mended boxer briefs and jeans, leaving his shirts aside, then packs up the damp cloaks and the quilt, bundling them all into the extra space in Ora's old traveling pack with the knife tucked into his belt, and their grey lump of Fillorian soap waiting at the end of the bed. 

Eliot doesn't watch him, mostly. Instead, Eliot calls a bowl into their little room (copper, inlayed with chips of rubies and sapphires, because the people of the Painted City never did know when to stop), and warms it with his hands as he fills it with pooling-up seeping water from the wind-stilled fountain at the feet of Aiah the Bright.


	7. with you through anything, my love

###  [7\. with you through anything, my love](https://anonym.to?https://soundcloud.com/jungle-8/mama-oh-no) [[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

These days, the only ways into the Mouseion are through the Cloud Wall in Fillory, and Eliot's not stupid enough to go back there; or via a direct portal aimed deep deep deep down into the darkest dustiest sub-sub-basement of the archives, where not even the Sophistai come any longer, and where the wards are starting to fail: quietly, and without notice. This far underground blackness is relieved, only, by the soft weak candle-glow of the Elektor, locked behind barrier after ancient barrier, throbbing sullenly in its cage. Brian is drawn to it like a plant to sunlight, of course: "What is it?" he asks, quiet; when Eliot catches his wrist, his spread palm just-shy of the shimmering golden arch of the keyspell.

"Magic," Eliot says. "Careful. It'll burn, if you're not of the blood."

"It looks," Brian says, and then hesitates. "Old."

"It is old," Eliot says. "Very, very old, and very, very dangerous."

"Is that why we're here?" Brian asks; and Eliot licks over his bottom lip.

"We're here because they can't follow," he says. "They'll—we left them things to trace, all over the Neitherlands—"

"Your blood," Brian says, quiet; and Eliot says, "Yeah"; and Brian ducks his head, looking down at the Elektor.

"Anyway," Eliot says, after a moment. "They can't come here. They don't even know it exists—there's no fountain, to the Mouseion. The Sophistai destroyed it. Ages ago. They're... at war, still. With the—the others."

"The others," Brian echoes; and Eliot swallows.

"The Order," he says. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. What matters is that they don't like strangers, and they don't trust anyone."

"Well, _that_ definitely seems like a safe place for us to hang out," Brian says, flat, looking up at him; and Eliot brushes his cheek.

"They won't find us," he says, quiet. "Promise. They don't come down here. They didn't even notice that their wards were failing, and they've been failing for hundreds of years."

Brian takes a breath. "You noticed," he says, quiet; and Eliot doesn't answer, at first.

"I'm not like them," he says, finally. "We were looking for the Elektor, before we—and then. I was _drawn_ to the Elektor. I was—made to find it, in a sense. Like I found you. So when I left the Castle, I couldn't help noticing, that I could get in."

"Elektor," Brian echoes, quiet, and then takes a breath. "And it's Greek, not German, right? So—that means—uh, it's the same root as electron, isn't it," he says, "so—amber, or something like it?"; and Eliot swallows.

"Yeah," he says. He is thinking: _golden, like your skin_. He is thinking: _golden, like the sun_. 

"You were looking for it," Brian says, and then, hesitating, "Martin. And—and Denton."

Eliot is silent, in the dark. "They looked in all the wrong places," he says, finally. "They thought—"

Her. It'd been— _her_ , he is thinking, with a deep-low slow drawn-out ache: they'd all been such idiots, still—still fucking looking to the Order, with their bloody hands; but she'd been the one who'd saved them, finally, hadn't she? His—his Ora, with her upright back and all her armor, her heavy crown and her fairy eye, seeing—

—seeing—

—Eliot shivers; and Brian squeezes his hand.

"They thought," Brian echoes; and Eliot swallows.

"They thought it'd give them power," he says. Throat tight. "All they knew was that it was powerful. We didn't—they didn't understand, that the Sophistai made it, that it's— _theirs_. That when the Mouseion fell and the Bibliotheke was first split, the Sophistai brought it here, and locked it up, so no one else could touch it."

"I guess this is all extremely Greek, isn't it." Brian turns his face up towards him, half-frowning. "The Mouseion—Bibliotheke—shit. You're talking about the Library of Alexandria, aren't you?" His widening eyes.

"It wasn't just a library." Eliot draws him away. "But yeah. That was part of it."

"The Library of Alexandria burned down," Brian says; and Eliot shrugs.

"A bunch of times, yeah. But magicians are bad at letting go. And they saved what they could."

"Am I for fucking real in the _Library of Alexandria_ right now?" Brian asks, with his voice hopping up: pure Quentinish delight, that—but of course, Brian's a nerd, too, isn't he? Brian even got the paper to prove it.

"Sort of." It's probably not necessary, but Eliot still winds up his magic with the wards, wrapping them in on themselves: _safe, hidden, safe_. Then he brings the lights up, slow slow slow: rippling up into life away from them in waves, row after row after row; spell-lights, not oil lanterns, because none of the Sophistai had trusted an open flame. "You're in—one of the archives, I guess. _The_ archive." All around them, standing beside the low golden glow of the shielded Elektor, the shelves spread out in ring after ring after ring, rising up in tiered terraces: a bowl, with them at the bottom, lined with shelves bearing scrolls resting carefully at an angle, wrapped in preservation spells—though these are starting to fail, too: dust misted down onto their edges. Brian can't seem to stop staring all around them, his eyes huge. Above them, the vast high vaulted ceiling is shadowy in the spell-lights, but Eliot still thinks he can almost make out the black-and-red figures of history: Herakles, Plato, Hypatia. Driven out to the shadows at the edges: all reference to their gods.

"Can I—can I _read_ them?" Brian asks. Clutching at Eliot's hand.

"Yeah. No—wait." Eliot brushes his hand over Brian's forehead, tucking his hair back. "They're all—this level is Phoenician and Greek, mostly. But I can—uh, I could." He shivers. _No_ , he is thinking, stern; but—

—but—

"I, um." Eliot laughs, a very little. "I've been trying—really hard, not to—I've been trying to stay. _Out_ of you, I—" _Rude_ , Ora had scolded, _rude,_ very _rude, no one wants you to—_ "I know it's." He clears his throat. "It's your—mind, your body—it's _you_ ," Eliot says, helpless, "I _know_ that, I wouldn't—I won't do it unless you say I can but. But if. If you wanted, I could— _help_ you, I could—give it to you, if you want."

"Give it to me," Brian echoes. His face— "Like you did by the river?"

By the river. Eliot shivers. "No," he croaks. "Not—it'd be. Um. _More_ than that, I'd have to." Breathing in. "Go _into_ you, not just. Stay nearby." He steps back, tense; but Brian catches his wrist.

"I like everything you do to me," Brian says, very very quietly; and Eliot meets his eyes.

"It's not," he says, and then. Stops. _It's not nice_? _It's not going to—_ feel _nice?_ But—but _if_ , he is thinking, with that little eager-thrumming part of him that he's been keeping half-tucked around Brian: to watch him, to guard him, to keep him warm enough and to pull off his pain: maybe it _would_ feel nice. _Maybe_ , he is thinking, with a low, illicit thrill: _maybe it_ did _feel nice, almost, and that's why Eliot—_.  "I don't know what it's like," Eliot says. His heart. Picking up. "No one's ever—I haven't—I mean, it's not like either of us has any experience, um— _doing_ that with—just because. Um."

Brian's mouth is quirked up at the corner. "We could try it," he suggests, sidling closer. Eliot hadn't really thought he could get any closer, but he is tightening his arms warm around Eliot's waist and there is—there is a bright, warm laugh lurking at the bottom of Brian's deep brown eyes: Eliot can see it, and he wants it, and he loves it and he _needs_ and part of him wants to laugh, too, but—but he doesn't—he doesn't understand— _why_ , why is—what does he— "We could experiment," Brian suggests, "we could just—mess around, you know?" Nuzzling his face up; so Eliot kisses his mouth, very gentle, "You could just," Brian says, and then "just go in a _little_ ": pressing his warm smile against Eliot's, opening, as—as helpless Eliot winds—just—just the littlest, narrowest, smallest seeking tendril into him, as Brian shivers up under his hands.

It doesn't. Go quite. The way that he—

" _Fuck_ ," Brian is gasping, "oh, that's—Jesus, El—"; and then kisses him again, heart pounding-poundingpoundingpo un d i   n     g  clawing upinside him and Brian just

           _opens_

for it, and Eliot

   
                                                  is not

                             _allowed_

tocrashfullspeedintotheshiveringsoftwarm _space_ of him: Brian's wiry, stubborn, familiar mind unfolding to him, as panting Brian digs his hand hard into the back of Eliot's aching neck.

"I can't," tasting— _hot_ : I won't, "I won't—"

"Please," breathing you are breathing reaching—reaching-winding your—fingers with my fingers and my hands in your hair as you pull yourself

open

to me and I want— "Please," repeating you are "please" ing me it repeats "please" as you are— _kissing_ me, and Eliot refolds himself heart pounding-pounding-pounding as he draws himself back—back— _back_.

"Jesus," Brian croaks, shivering: Eliot's got him shoved up hard against a shelf, Brian's toes barely even brushing the floor, his arms wrapped hard around Eliot's back with Eliot's knee pressed up between his hot thighs: okay, so— _that_. That would be why Brian was laughing, of course, of course, because of _course_ it feels nice: they're both rock hard, and they've knocked half the scrolls off the shelf, and Brian's mouth looks mauled: wet and shiny and red. Brian's got all their buttons undone again. Eliot doesn't know what it says about them, that _that's_ where his accidental magic goes, every goddamned time. Eliot eases Brian's feet back down to the floor, but Brian doesn't let go. "You," Brian says, "were going to—to put something. Into me," he says, and then shivers: _Gods_. "So I could, uh—read the books," he adds, unconvincingly; and then slips his hand under Eliot's collar; and Eliot pushes him back up against the shelf again, Brian groaning into his mouth.

"That wasn't," Eliot is trying to explain, between desperate, half-dazed kisses, "that wasn't actually—me trying to get into your pants, I really did mean—" 

"You can always get into my pants," Brian tells him; and Eliot says, "Oh, fucking hell," and hoists Brian's legs up his hips.

Brian laughs, breathless; and peels Eliot's shirt down his skin. It wouldn't—it wouldn't have to—they wouldn't have to, to do _everything_ , would they, just—but Brian is pushing his thumb at the corner of Eliot's mouth and—pulling—down so Eliot pushes him up higher and licks down the soft-salty skin of his throat. "I wanted," Brian whispers, "I want, I want you to—you were going to—by, by the river, you—it was like you were," Brian says, shivering, " _under my skin_ ": and sparking all over like fireworks Eliot rubs their noses together, their mouths, tasting—oranges. Salt: and "Please," Brian whispers, "please, baby, do it, do it— _please_ " and helpless, Eliot licks into Brian's wet-warm wide open mouth and. And uncoils, just a little bit further, just past the smallest-slipperiest edges of him.

Not—not _pushing_. Just. Just petting, just—just a little: coiling a shivery-slick tendril against the burning-hot bladed edges of Brian's wiry, stubborn, familiar mind while Brian moans, prickling up under Eliot's hands.

"This is—" Eliot— _kisses_ — " _dangerous_ , baby, I can't—"

"I want every part of you pushed inside every part of me," Brian tells him; low and rough—

—and pulls—

— _pulls_ him—

_deep_

up looking up at the steel glass wideopen grey-blue light diamond-paned stretched impossibly above them and the clear cold wet taste of the air at 5th and Madison in Seattle's omnipresent autumn rain with Kimmy grabbing his hand to pull him down down down towards the 26 cold air on his face on their fingers on his—teeth—in his—lip and his blood his blood his blood it tasted like—copper; grief; oranges; salt the salt the salt the salt at the sweaty edge of your temple oh, your salt. We'd read about—

— _the death penalty_ , we are unfolding, _for history class. Don't_ —

so we don't because we are, we are, we are slipping open widerwiderwider the blown-apart vast atomized space of us, sinking into our lungs. Our hands on our mouth and our mouth on our skin and our skin peeling cracked open apart to let us—

—and Eliot sucks in a trembling-hot steaming breath as Brian shivers helplessly in his arms.

A breath. 

A breath: Brian's half-naked, Eliot's hand down the back of his boxers, Eliot's cock aching in Brian's slick fist.

"Okay," Eliot croaks. "Okay, I can't—"

"Come back," Brian groans, "just—"

—so helpless Eliot shivers back unwinding coiling in, in, into him, the slippery-openwide wanting of his whole aching hollow body, bent up on his knees under him in that expensive white bed which he didn't, he didn't, he hasn't, he'd never— _cheated_ before but—had I? Had I? _Had_ we? Needing a thing I didn't have _words_ for: the obliterating entirety of coming undone helpless in Eliot's longwarm familiar, _familiar_ hot arms, his scratchy face, his burning eyes, and my whole body unraveling for him wanting, wanting, wanting him with that—that whole vast irresistible longing, wanting like—like I'd wanted it and wanted it and _wanted_ and never fucking _got_ it, until—until you were touching me, actually _touching_ me, for the first time in my—my whole fucking _life_ — 

"God," gasping, "gods, I have to—" as shuddering all over you come grinding up into my hands.

"Okay": Eliot swallows. "Okay— _sweetheart_ —" and Brian groans, still trembling, and then slithers down onto his knees.

"Jesus," Eliot gasps, already—already jerkingupshovingslickdeepwarmwet and he is he always he— _wants_ as shaking Eliot splinters the edge of the shelf in his palms.

Brian. Rests. Thinking about—oil paints: still coiled half-up half-around sliding glossily against you, the familiar chemical-turpentine smoky tang at the core of you, my forehead pressed hot against Eliot's warm thigh.

"I didn't actually bring you here to fuck you," Eliot manages.

"I would've," Brian replies, half-muffled; and then lifts his face up, sweat-shiny and flushed, still: his blown wide black eyes. Eliot unsticks his hands from the gnawed-up splintered wood and reaches down to help him up. _In the woods_ : a juniper-sharp cold snow-muffled half-memory of walking in winter down the longlonglong icyslick stairs in Golden Gardens; and Gods, _Gods_ , Eliot'd do it in a heartbeat: shove him up against—against the edge of a cedar, snow drifting down everywhere around them, pulling—pulling him back against him, his warm soft trembling body, nuzzling—nuzzling up under his silky hair and his coat-collar to his—his _skin_ —and " _Gods_ ," Brian groans, plastering their bare-sticky bodies together; "Jesus, I have to stop— _screwing_ you," Eliot gasps, blinking hard-hard-hard, "for like—fifteen fucking minutes"; and Brian laughs, a high, harsh, desperate sound, and says, "I'm starting to. _Get_ it," voice trembling, "why you haven't just—been telepathically— _shoving into_ me, for the past—"

"Come here," Eliot says, desperate; and Brian groans, stumbling back up to his feet. 

Eliot kisses him. Over, and over, and over again: the kind of deep hot honey-sweet kissing that they'd done for decades lying out on the mosaic that he hasn't done since Berkeley he hasn't—that he'd never— _never_ done, not—not in Blackspire, not in his miserable luxury mausoleum of an apartment, not growing up in—fucking _Pittsburgh_ —

"Shit," Brian gasps, prickling up-under around inside engulfing him, and reaches for—

—the knife.

Ben breathes. It breathes. Brian breathes—

"Eliot," I am Brian whispering, "kiss me like you just found me again": and you are twisting to kiss him with—your— _whole fucking soul_ lashing-out writhing unwinding tentacles and tail the many-armed golden sprawling stretching _snarl_ of us as Brian drags the knifetip to mark a hot split-peeling back skinning seam down Eliot's throat, and sternum, and belly.

A trickle. Blood leaking out— _out_ of him— _hot_ —

"Oh," Eliot says, thick.

"Are you with me again?" Brian asks, quiet; and Eliot drops his face down to his shoulder. Trembling. All over. 

"Yeah, baby," he whispers, "fuck. Thank you"; and Brian presses a kiss to his hair.

Eliot rubs his mouth against him. His forehead. His nose: the soft warm lovely junction of shoulder, and clavicle, and throat. Their chests stick together: fuck. Fuck: Eliot hadn't—he hadn't. Thought.

"Can I," Brian asks. His warm, slick-sticky hand, splaying across the leaking line drawn down the center of Eliot's hollow ribs. Eliot shivers up all over, fur stroked unflat; and then nods. Nods, whispering, "I can—I could. Guide you, if you—" _wanted_ : but Brian is already opening himself up to it and Eliot sinks into him feather-soft and drowning, pushing into. Into the molten-hot sticky _core_ of him: that wet-earth greenbrowngrey taste of his magic, welling out of him and into the burnt-through bottom of Miriam Baxter's ancient saucepan. Eliot'd wanted to fuck him then, and Brian'd wanted him to do it: Brian'd wanted—Brian'd wanted Eliot to fuck him on his first day at CUNY, when he came for the entrance exam, he'd wanted to just—just slide up into his lap up on that long stone wall, unbuttoning his black coat while Eliot'd set aside his cigarette just long enough to bend up to kiss Brian's softsalty golden throat.

Eliot winds their fingers together. Squeezing. The whole sweatbloodcome-smeared spelled-together space of his chest, pressed tremblingly to Brian's: "Is this going to keep being—like this," Brian asks, unsteady; and then bites, gasping, at Eliot's spit-slickening bottom lip.

"I'll probably stop needing to fuck you eventually," Eliot manages, "in—in eight to ten thousand years": and Brian laughs, sliding against him, the prickling-up electric-blue slide of their senses and their skins and their selves. "God," Eliot groans; and picks Brian up off his feet again, half-stumbling, almost-crashing down to the ground. Brian reaches up hand trailing gold for Ora's pack and yanks the quilt slitheringly towards them: "They made this," one of them says: one—one of them. One of— "Y-yeah," says the other: they'd made it. they'd made it— "Together," he is murmuring, "in another—ages ago": and I hooks his elbows up under our sweaty-bare knees, pushing—in. In. In. Forehead to forehead: you wrappedaroundtwistedup pushing—into onto around inside me coiling magicslick wet asyou move and i move and It moves and we move and my tongue is your tongue and your ribs and with our— _hands_ —pushing together over and over our bodies together fitting together moving together rising together as our fingers are—together and our sweaty slick skins slide together and our mouths lock together and our— _hearts_ —

" _Okay_ ," Brian gasps out. 

His pulse pounding, hard, under Eliot's burning-hot forehead: Eliot feels like someone's gone after him with a meat tenderizer, all over holes. He can't even hold his shoulders up. Collapsed half-onto half-still inside Brian, sea-slick sweaty skin pressed everywhere to Brian's wet skin. "So," Brian manages; and then laughs a little, petting—still _petting_ at him, all over him, around him, _inside_ him: stroking that coiling-up trembling starving animal that lives inside Eliot's meat-cage of skin and sinew and bone, the part that just wants to follow Brian around everywhere, looking for pats. Brian sinks his hand into Eliot's wet hair, tucking it back; Eliot shivers and presses closer, sliding his arms around the slippery hot arch of Brian's bare back. 

"I feel like we were going to—to do something," Brian says, with a very little part of him still coiling uncoiling against-into Eliot: _hello_ , he is saying, _hi, hello; hello, you_. It makes Eliot's throat hurt, how much he loves him.

"I was going to help you read the books," Eliot says. "Since."

"Since I'm not up on my ancient Greek?" Brian suggests; and then nudges at Eliot's shoulder until Eliot rolls off of him, with some difficulty. Every part of him is limp in a way Eliot doesn't actually think he's ever been before. He was bored, most of the time, honestly. In the Castle. 

Brian pushes, unsteadily, up to his knees. Still bare all over, gleaming in the spell-light: _Gods_ , Eliot is thinking, a little bit desperately, _just_ don't. "The archive's not going anywhere," he says, reaching out to pet at Brian's shining ankle, and Brian bends over him, smiling, to kiss him. Nips, delicately, at Eliot's bottom lip.

"Well, I was assuming you brought us here for a reason, though," Brian says. His skin. Satiny and wet, under Eliot's thirty-five fingertips. 

"Was it an important reason?" Eliot. Pets. "You could—I want. I want you to sit on my face," he is realizing; watching, hypnotized, as Brian flushes red all over his throat and his knees and his chest and his hips. "You could. Sit on my face?" Eliot suggests.

"Later," Brian counters, and then bends down to kiss him again: Eliot is squirming all over. Wanting it. _Now_ : so Brian slides two fingertips justbackintoagainst the start of Eliot's groaning throat.

"Be good, baby," Brian says, gentle; and then bends down to kiss him again. Stroking, velvet-soft, up the prickling papillae-rough length of Eliot's wet wanting tongue. "What should I be looking for, hm?" Brian asks. Brushing wet fingertips over Eliot's cheek: Eliot kisses the inside of his wrist, and Brian whispers, "To get this out of you," as his left hand settles, cupping-warm, over the tender unscaffolded skin of Eliot's abdomen.

Eliot takes a deep, slow breath. 

"Can you," he starts. _Feel it_ , he is thinking; _can you feel it_ ; but of course he can, of _course_ Brian can feel it: he is drawing his thumb just precisely over the curling coiling-uncoiling purplish line of Henry _fucking_ Fogg's magic inside _Eliot's own fucking body_ , and of course he can feel it, because _Eliot_ can feel it; and Brian's still inside him, isn't he. That trembling, togetherish entangled wisp of them, cuddling together, either side of the barely-there barrier of Eliot's hot, human skin.

"When you. When you pulled it out of yourself," Brian says, and his voice wobbles, near the end. "You didn't—you ripped it off. Just. Just at the skin, but it goes deeper than that. It goes. All the way down."

Eliot swallows. "Yeah," he says.

"Because I can—I can feel," Brian says, and then stops. Takes a breath. "I can feel it. It's all. Woven into you." His head drops down. Hair hanging around his pink face: "It tastes. Bad," Brian says, unsteady. "It's not—it's not all—all smoky, like you. It doesn't—it's not all—all golden like you, is it?" Brian asks; and Eliot settles his hand over Brian's, on his stomach. Brian lets out a soft, ragged-edged breath, and then bends down to kiss the back of Eliot's knuckles, and then sits back on his feet.

Those big, brown eyes.

"Hauntings," Eliot says,  after a minute, "exorcisms"; and they blink.

"What?"

"Hauntings," Eliot repeats, "and exorcisms." He rolls up to sitting, and then lumbers up to his feet: "That's what you should be looking for. In the scrolls": he holds a hand down, and pulls Brian up to standing.

"Right," Brian says. "O—kay."

 _Hauntings; exorcisms_ ought to be its own subject heading—possibly two—in any sensibly-organized library; but the Mouseion isn't a library, not really, and it definitely isn't sensibly-organized. Eliot resorts to using all his hands for the calling-spells and the rest of himself for sorting things into piles while Brian does the actual reading: "Why's everything still in scrolls, anyway," Brian asks, "have they not heard about book-binding?"

"Microfiche," Eliot suggests, "searchable full-text archives." They're wrestling another scroll open along the floor beside the sprawl of their quilt: still damp, and pink at its paler edges. Brian starts giggling. 

"Yeah," he says. "I could really go for Worldcat right now. And highlightable PDFs. Also, why don't they have any tables?"

"They didn't exactly build this place to make it easier for invading researchers," Eliot says, skimming over— "well, this one has a section on demonic possession," he says, pointing, "but it's probably not exactly to the purpose."

"I mean." Brian hesitates. "You do sort of. Have a thing you don't want inside you."

"Yeah, but Ben Harwood isn't a demon, he's just a douchebag." Eliot sighs, and rubs at his forehead. "Besides, he's not—he's made _out of me_ , you know." His back is prickling up. "It'd be a lot less awful if he wasn't," Eliot admits.

Brian sighs; and then rubs at his forehead. "So then, should I keep going on this, or..."

"Until I find something more promising, I guess," Eliot says, and kisses Brian's cheek before trudging back up to Tier 17, -60°, and swishing his fingers around in that dumb human way they'd taught Eliot at Brakebills, calling everything to him in the section on the subject of eidola; embodied spirits; chimeras of magic and man.

When he comes back down to their nest, Brian is sitting, cross-legged, at the base of the scroll, staring at—at nothing. Nothing, Eliot thinks, with the Elektor a soft golden glow between them and his heart slamming hard up into his chest, remembering every—every blank-eyed vacant moment Brian'd had in the valley; he hasn't had one since, has he?—but of course, since the valley, they've been traveling; or here; or bleeding out on bitter slate-ish rocks on an abandoned husk of a planet: slicing someone open isn't, he thinks, precisely an accepted long-term treatment for anxiety. If it was Ben would've been fixed before college. But then Eliot steps to him, crouching down, and Brian blinks at him, his gaze sharpening: and from nowhere, Brian says, "Tell me about firebird."

Eliot blinks. "About—"

"Firebird," Brian repeats.

Eliot's heart throbs. Once. Twice. "Do you mean the phoenix?" he asks, uncertain; and Brian's mouth softens at the edges, as he leans up for a kiss. Eliot comes to sit down next to him so he can give it.

"Okay," Brian says. Soft, for some reason. "Tell me about the phoenix," he says, and then kisses him again.

"Um." Eliot kisses him back, confused, but he still says, "It's—they were a species of giant bird that burnt their nests to hatch their eggs," he says, "so there was a lot of mythological—magicians always liked them, though. They used to keep them as servants, until the birds rebelled."

"Well, who wouldn't?" Brian says, soft. "'Were'?"

Eliot shifts. "They're extinct now, I think? Or."

He is.

He is remembering, he is realizing, a story. He is remembering a story that Ora told him. Eliot had wanted a phoenix, desperately, passionately; he had raged for—oh, decades, probably, smashed up the whole west wing of the Castle when month after month year after year she wouldn't ask Iris for one for him, and Ora'd—her eyes had been big and wide and—and _frightened_ , she had been _afraid_ of him, and she had said—

Coiling against-inside him, Brian nods. Kisses Eliot's hot cheek. His temple. Then he says, very gentle, "Where did the quilt come from, Eliot?"

Eliot swallows. There is something, he is realizing, inside him: the odd, buzzing sensation of something unseen, of a cold sharp wind that is—that is kept outside, just, but is just—just creeping, just a little, past an ill-fit trembling door built between them, only just half-seen: "Where did—what do you mean?"

"The quilt." Brian leans forward, reaching over Eliot's folded-up knee, to touch it. "This quilt. Where did it come from?"

"Our bed," Eliot says. He is. Unsure. Half-afraid, he doesn't— "I brought it with us, from the apartme—"

—and then he stops, because—

—beca        use                                    it wa                                      sn't 

_there_ —

"Oh—shit," whispered, "hey," whispering: "hey, it's okay, Eliot—it's okay, it doesn't matter, it's not—"

"It _wasn't_." Eliot's throat feels tight. Claggy and heavy and wet: the fields, after the first heavy soaking spring rains— "it wasn't," he insists, as Brian—kneeling, when did he—is petting at his face: "it wasn't _there_ ," Eliot explains, "it wasn't—I'd brought—I'd brought the—"

"Shh, I know—I know, Eliot." Kissing—

"—that fucking awful white duvet," Eliot says, unsteady, "that he slept under like—like as long as everything he did was boring and expensive, he'd be— _okay_ , like that'd—like it'd make—make him—"

"Shh—Eliot—"

"—less of a fucking fag," Eliot says, and then starts laughing, hot and painful and wild, as Brian wipes at Eliot's aching, alien face. "Gods, he was—he'd _never_ admit it, not even—not even _thought_ it, not even—secretly, deep down, hidden inside himself, he's so fucking—I was such a fucking _coward_ , I'd just—"

"It's okay." Brian kisses him. "It's okay, El. It's okay. Shh, it's okay."

"I couldn't make love to you one single fucking second longer on that fucking thing," Eliot tells him, and then pulls Brian up tight against him: squeezing—squeezing— _squeezing_ him, pulling him up so tight that he has to check: "Can you breathe?"; and Brian laughs, a little, whispering, "Yeah, baby"; so that Eliot can kiss him with a clear conscience, warm and wet and hungry, open. Wide.

"El." Brian pets his cheek, the edge of his ear. Kisses him again, and then asks, "Do you trust me?" Pressed to him: forehead to forehead, chest to—chest—

"I—of course I do," Eliot says; and Brian kisses him again. Again. Again. Again. Again: over and over, and over and over, until Eliot—until Eliot is—losing— _track_ —

"Lie down," Brian is whispering: coaxing, petting at Eliot's back, his shoulders, his gangly too-long spider's legs and his—prickling—arms, "Lie down, lie down with me," Brian whispers, over and over again, until they are both lying down, knees tangled together: Brian's hair falling forward  around his warm lovely face. "Hey." Brian kisses him. "Kiss me," he whispers: redundantly; as Eliot kisses him, helpless, over and over and over and over and over again, while Brian's little half-conscious tendrils of magic are winding their way down the buttons of Eliot's sweat-crumpled shirt. "Open up for me," Brian whispers; and Eliot. Opens: feeling. Feeling blown apart. Brian slips his two fingers, gentle, into Eliot's drooling mouth.

"Don't talk," Brian says, quiet. "Do you remember teaching me how to use my knife? Don't answer that."

Eliot. Doesn't. He is staring up at Brian whose face is soft, soft, soft; his eyes soft, soft, soft; his mouth soft soft soft and parted as he caresses, very gently, the warm sponge of tissue between Eliot's mouth and the soft, squashy insides of his skull; and he doesn't. He doesn't remember. He doesn't— _remember_ —

"Yeah," Brian says, very soft. "It's okay. I didn't think you did. It's okay. I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to hurt you, I don't _want_ to hurt you. I want to protect you, okay?"

Eliot. Whines; and Brian rubs his thumb across the edge of Eliot's held-open aching mouth.

"It was scary," Brian says, quiet. "What you showed me, then. What you said. And I think this is going to be a little scary, too," he says. "Can you trust me?"

 _I'm not scared_ , Eliot is thinking, _thinking_ at him: reaching out for him petting him _wanting_ him: _how can I be scared when I'm touching you?_

"Yeah?" Brian whispers; as Eliot. Nods.

"Good," Brian breathes; and kisses him: just at the seam between Eliot's mouth and Brian's fingers, still petting at the opening of his throat. Eliot. Squirms: _groaning_ ; and Brian makes a little hot noise and "Can I," he whispers, "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise, I _promise_ , El—but I need you to help"; and then pulls his fingers out of Eliot's mouth.

"I trust you," Eliot says. Thick: and Brian rubs his wet knuckles across Eliot's burning-hot jaw.

"Bri," Eliot whispers, and Brian bends down to kiss him again. Again: coaxing Eliot's open shirt back off his shoulders, pushing his jeans—open— _down_ —and bared underneath him Eliot, Eliot is, Eliot is trembling all over helpless barely-knowing what he wants but just that he wants it: tugging at the seam of Brian's collar, just a little, until Brian pulls away from him long enough to yank the thing off. Just so he can. 

Touch.

"I really wasn't," Brian says, and then kisses him again, half-kneeling above him while their hands tangle up on Brian's fly, trying to— "mm—I really wasn't—trying to screw you again, I just—I just wanted—" and their mouths together open and open and Eliot drags at him, reaching for him with everylaststreaminggold _part_ of him

and they

groan.

"oh god": panting, "can you just—" pushing— _up_ tangled-entangling the liquid-green oceany tang of your b odi es and crashing into us with the sizzling-hot steaming gush of water against metal burning hot from the fire, and helpless

reaching out throughinto him 

—and Brian's breath catches in his throat. Pushing—pushing velvetsoft dragging against him, hard and hot and _his_ —

"You trust me": whispered, whispering; "—yes—love—" as I am remembering—

 _—ife can hurt you just as well as as m as anyone else you know_ , you are saying, forcing my hand up again: _if it's dangerous to them it's dangerous to you and this one is very very dangerous so—_ : and I put up my hand and you put your hands on my hand and my wrist and my shoulder and then in the flower-strewn valley of emerald forests and the deep cold clean river and the boulder staircase rising up into the vast cool blue sky, you muscle up against me over and over, afternoon after afternoon, pushing at my hands my wrists my shoulders until I stop dropping it: _you need to keep track of it_ , you repeat, over and over: _don't lose it_ : gentle, but intractable, insistent; and when I'm too tired to keep fighting you kiss my forehead and say _just—just keep it to hand, baby, always,_ always; before you guide me back to the fire for fish or rabbit or venison for dinner: and shivering dragging _down_ as they leak together they are reaching out for the knife. 

" _Please_ ," it gasps—stutters—and "Shhhhhhhhhh," my mouth on your mouth is our mouth and it murmurs, "shhh, El. Trust me, _help_ me, please": and I trust you, I trust you, I _want_ it, how I trust you: huge and bottomless, the vast golden well of wanting you, springing up from its tiny-tendrilled dirt-pale root inside of me: which I—which I place—which I settle into your stubborn, wiry, familiar warm hands.

"Oh": breathed out, barely; "oh. _Baby_ ": and body sliding liquid-slow and wet and warm everywhere—together—your cock nestled silkywarm to my cock your mouth to my mouth every part of meusyou _tightening_ as I drag the blade down under your ribs my ribs his ribs, his meat-monster ribs, as tangled up together the swirling Charybdian knot of their power his power its power our power is slowly opening its vast, miasmic black maw.

do you

   
                                                      remember

                    that

in the pas de deux she is held up by him while she fights him her freedom as he holds her he is helping her flee from him with all of her—red feathers and, and, and you lean towards me whispering, _she'll put the monsters to sleep_ but you weren't with me you weren't you weren't you _weren't_ that was—that was— _someone else_ and and it is coming it is reaching for me white fire in its handsome changeable brown eyes

"Bri," you gasp, " _love_ —" and shhh "shhhhhhh Shhhh," I whisper, pushing—pushing just against you around me inside of you inside of me: " _Help_ me, baby, I _need_ you": and groaning pressing— _up_ you arch gleaming underneath us as you

                                                      and

                                              I

                                  slot 

                        into

              one perfect

      shining

piece.

and walking into the river ahead of me you shine you shine you shine until it can't it can't it can't look at you anymore because it hurts, how badly it wants to kiss you, so it pushes up-up-up floating arms spread out out out and if your fingers brush its then _oh_ , it will gasp, _I forgot—the sun_ the sun the sun its weak white lie: the sun my sun like you are my sun and I lie out in the river floating halfway away from you looking up at the sun like you only—not, not quite, not quite as— _bright_ —

and " _Jesus_ ," it gasps: it is gasping arching up snarling underneath us so Eliot shoves down hard on its long white wrists that I—kissed, but it's not, it's not, it's not _me_ , it's not _him_ , _that isn't Eliot, baby_ , that is—

 _here's a riddle_ , asks the winter's doe, _how much do you have to lose before you're no longer yourself?_

"Ben," Brian says, sharp; and squirming inside him Eliot puts all his power into shoving Brian's right hand down hard around Ben's pinned thrashing wrists while under them Ben snarls, "Oh—Jesus fuck—fuck, _fuck_ you, what the fuck are you—" and they put Brian's knife under Ben's bellows-breathing ribs and just. Push.

In.

"Oh my God," Ben gasps: trickling; _leaking_ , where he and I and shivering dragging upup _up_ "Oh my God, are you— _naked_? I— _fuck_ , you're—actually going to—oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , what—what the hell, what—what are you _doing_ , you fucking— _psychopath_ , what are you fucking— _doing_ to me—I can't, I can't—I can't _hold_ him, baby—" and hackles up Brian takes a deep breath filling four lungs, and drags the knife down slicing through the hot sticking resistance of meat as underneath them, it screams.

It screams.

 

 

                                                                              it—

 

 

 

                      — _ **screams**_ —

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _i stay_ you said you said _i stay_ you said _i stay in the castle_ and the vast black howling emptiness inside it had howled: _but what about_ me?

 

 

 

Searing. Searing, _searing_ , fucking _everywhere_ : _Focus, sweetheart_ : that long-lost deep purring-bright wanted kiss of him oh, God, _Quentin_ as shaking Brian drops the knife. "I need," he manages, "El i need you": Eliot sliding up under his skin, his—his hand, his lead hand, Brian's right hand slipping—down—into the squelching-soft insides of hisown—borrowed—body touching—meat, wet with—his throbbing-hot black blood as Ben Harwood thrashes one hand free grabbing for the knife and Brian slides halfway aside to give Eliot space to _move_ : Brian's hand which is Eliot's hand whipped up and _howling_ , the raw-hot agony of the knife slicing skin-blood-tendon- _bone_ of his half-mortal half-Eliot left hand as all around them the Mouseion's spell-lights flare a blazing blizzard-white as Ben is shouting-thrashing under against him, the moonstone slicing deep into the meat of Brian's blood-gushing screaming hand. "Baby," it gasps: with Br—Que— _Brian_ surging up in him tangledwarm dazed aching and metallic, earth and copper, blood, Brian's hands in his right hand guiding all of their—tentacles—where they slide slipping into slithering _under_ him pushing-petting-feeling past his intestines and his gallblader and the purple-slick knotted ropes of Ben fucking Harwood to unknot the glittering-throbbing knot of the still-effervescing blue roots of 22.7 mL of absinthe, nutmeg, sodium metabisulfite, angelica, mineral oil, and lethe-water where it had eleven months earlier seeped out through the razed earth of Eliot Waugh's grief-stricken dying body as he'd made love to Quentin Coldwater for the last fucking time: at Brakebills, in motherfucking Todd's borrowed bed.

"Oh," Ben is gurgling, "f— _fu_ —": and with a snarled dragged-tight flick, oranges and salt, Brian rips his roots out of Eliot's laid-open gushing guts.

Eliot chokes. Jerking— _up_ —

"Jesus": gasping— "Okay, Gods—now, El, I need you, _please_ " and trembling I am open-open-open we are open-open-open and it is open-open-open: that feeling like throwing open the shutters to pour soft breezes across us on the first warm day of the spring: your magic in my magic is your magic in your hands guiding my hands which are your hands as your mouth is on my mouth like our mouths had been one mouth when—when you had—when—when Janet had tied our hands together beside the river decades ago, back in Fillory—

(J—)

—and it is the easiest thing in the world, Brian is finding, to put Eliot's body back together: kissing his throat, his mouth, as his fingertips trail us golden along all the seams of Eliot's bare bloody burning body, and—and—and I _want_ it, I find. I _want_ it. _Did_ I want it? But I do now: to be back inside that so so desperately loved imperfect warm skin.

"El," Brian says, thick. "Eliot. Baby—"

"Yeah," Eliot manages; and Brian moans, halfway to sobbing, shivering back up against him pressing his mouth to him, breathing in deep: Eliot puts his hands on him. His hair, his cheeks: "Let me see your hand, my love," Eliot whispers; and when Brian lifts it up—fucking _Hera and Artemis_ , still _gushing_ blood: the knife hadn't stopped until it'd hit bone; and Eliot asks, but barely; because Brian is already opening himself up for it, letting Eliot pull at his earthy-green-grey togetherish magic to suck it up into Eliot's hollow wanting vessel of a body, so that Eliot can guide it back into the mangled wreckage of Brian's left hand. Watching. Watching the flesh seal up, blood and skin and meat—

"Is he gone?" Brian whispers. "Is it—is it over," and Eliot gathers Brian close-tight-close-tight-close to him, and kisses his forehead, reaching down inside himself and feeling—

 

 

—nothing. 

 

Nothing. _Nothing_ : nothing that'd hurt Brian, or leave him, or make him unhappy: just the true good shining parts of himself, golden and pure.

"Yeah, love," Eliot whispers, "he's gone"; and Brian shudders all over, pushing closer, as though he would burrow back under Eliot's skin.

Eliot strokes Brian's hair. The sweat- and blood-sticky back of his neck: Gods, they're disgusting. Someone'd come all over the both of them, in there, somewhere—Eliot, definitely; both of them, probably—and it's not like the Mouseion is equipped with convenient bathing facilities. "I should've let myself inside you in Makaria," Eliot murmurs; and Brian laughs, a raw ragged sound.

"You should've done it back in the valley," he says, thick, and kisses the jut of Eliot's collarbone. "Then we'd've been ready. When they came for us."

"Yeah, and there's a hot spring, there. I could wash your hair." Eliot tucks the straggly sweaty strands of it back. Kisses Brian's red-spattered cheek. "Hand?"

Brian takes a breath, and lifts it up, flexing: but it's so red-stained and crusted Eliot can't even fucking _see_. He lifts his chin, looking around, then crooks a finger to call Ora's pack over—bumping, clumsy; Gods, he's starving, too—and digs out the waterskin. No more from Makaria: just ordinary, unmagical water: he wets the edge of their cleanest article of clothing—his own discarded shirt—and then uses it to wipe gently at the edges of the angry scab running the length of Brian's warm palm. At the shivery-ticklish sides of his fingers, at his blood-smeared throat and his beautiful hot face.

"Can I," Brian asks, so Eliot gives him the shirt and the water, and lets Brian wipe, very carefully, at the crimson all over him from his crotch to his neck. There is a mark, but barely, when Brian cleans the mess away: a single long barely-pink scratch running down the left side of Eliot's belly, from his hip to his ribs. 

Eliot touches it. Half-disbelieving. Startled. He doesn't even think it'll scar.

"It was—that man," Brian says, very quietly. "The man who came to your Castle, with the blond girl."

Eliot takes a breath, thinking: _Henry Fogg_. "Henry Fogg," he says, "our old dean": and realization bursts inside him like fireworks, one-two-three: "Oh—thank the Gods, Brian, it was—he made us. He made us take this—this potion, he made us—"

"He made me forget you," Brian says, low and fierce and flat; and Eliot looks up at him, _into_ him: into Brian's burning brown eyes. 

"He took me away from you," Brian says. Tight. "He ripped me _out_ of you, he—he made fucking— _Ben fucking Harwood_ instead, and he put him inside you, he made us have to—fucking _cut him out of you_ —I want, I want to _destroy_ him," Brian says, "he deserves it," and then sucks in a deep, trembling breath.

Eliot swallows. Feeling—

—he doesn't—

"Is this," Brian says, unsteady. "This is what you meant, isn't it."

"What I meant," Eliot echoes; and "What you said in New York," Brian says. Brian says, low and tight, " _All the people who deserve our wrath_."

Eliot—

—e l io t—

There is a low, tense roar spreading out from the base of his brain: like the prickling-hot rush of heroin, of fucking on ecstasy—

—and "yes," Eliot hears. "Yes. It is."

Brian nods. His cheeks flushing a bright, splotchy red. "I will do anything," Brian says, " _anything_ to protect you"; and Eliot shifts.

"It's not just—about me," he says, "we can save—"

"You," Brian says. 

"—all of them," Eliot says. "All of them, all the people he hurt, M-M—Kady, and—and Jul—Kimmy, your Kimmy, and—and Penny, and Josh—"

" _You_ ," Brian repeats. Flat. "I want to save _you_ , I want to protect _you_ , Eliot. I want—I want to hurt anyone who's ever hurt you, I want—you're _mine_ , they can't _have_ you—"

—and Eliot surges up to meet him, in a hot, razor-wire edged kiss.

"El," Brian gasps, "yes— _Eliot_ ": and—

—and that's it, isn't it? 

This is it, my love. This is what I wanted, all those long years without you. You, in my arms.

Saying yes.

"I will hunt them," Brian says; and Eliot nods. "I will destroy them, I want them— _dead_ —" and Eliot groans out kissing him kissing him kissing him feeling the tangling wet-hot slick sensation of them touching all over mind and magic and— _skin_ —

"Lend it to me," Brian whispers, "lend it to me, guide me, _help_ me, _please_ , baby—" and Eliot moans down-low in the _pit_ of him, unraveling, Brian reaching into him: the surging-up sun of Eliot's power seeping up everywhere into Brian's warm flushed pink skin as their clothes are whip-up slap-straight slithering onto them quilt squelching-compacting as the Mouseion folds-up rearranging around them and the cold smashes into them, breathless, half-paralyzing: Brian struggling to lift his face from Eliot's chest to look around them at the weak midday winter half-light illuminating the icy bones of a frost-dead field that Eliot knows in every crawling shame-sick cell of himself: the Holliday field, and, there, the Hollidays' beat-up old pickup: still parked at the edge of the misery-soaked land that'd come to Nick and Danny Holliday four and a half years ago, not a full mile east of Whiteland Elementary.


	8. we will become, become

###  [8\. we will become, become [](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkBf6OEAlws)[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

Eliot—breathes. Breathes: the air is sharp and cold, the damp sticking in under his collar: "What," Brian asks; and then stops. 

He takes a little, shuffling half-step, tucking in close against Eliot. The cold is settling around them. _Into_ them: Eliot feels—like a window, imperfectly closed. The back of his neck itches, itches: the last time he'd been in the Holliday field had been—God. Winter break, 2012. He'd been in Whiteland—very reluctantly—while his dorm was closed, and she'd sent him to the Hollidays' with a casserole dish of white sauce and cheese and potatoes, on foot since—since someone else had needed the truck. Eliot can feel—his claws. All over. His tail, lashing under his skin.

"Where are we?" Brian asks, rough; and Eliot—

—swallows. 

"Hell," Eliot says, quiet.

"Hell," Brian echoes, hollow. 

Eliot can feel them. That huddle of breath and beer and bodies, down at the end of the field. "That's where they keep the demons, isn't it?" Eliot says, around the rising-creeping-up-burning inside him; and then steps out onto the bare, icy ground.

Brian grabs his hand, stumbling after him. "And—Fogg," Brian says, low and tight; and Eliot says, "Fogg can wait"; and Brian says, "I mean—no offense, but I'm not exactly crazy about putting off dealing with—": and then flinches, as Eliot flinches: both of them recoiling against that _wail_ , the baffled animalian howl of a creature who is cold and hurt and unhappy, this time slamming into both of them together. Scrabbling at their edges: " _Eliot_ ," Brian says, low and urgent, trotting so his whole warm body presses up to Eliot's, reaching—reaching upfor-into him, as Eliot reaches. Back. He feels it when Brian feels it even though he already could feel it: the odd stereo sensation of knowing that long, wet cry down to the _bones_ of him: thin and tremulous in their ears but a dirty bomb in their chests, the pain of it seeping out through them veins and skin and spine as Brian shivers: saying, "oh," thick. " _Fuck_ ": clinging to Eliot's hand; because it could be an animal, but it isn't.

 _We'll help him_ , Eliot could say. _We—that's why, that's why we're here, we have to help him_ ; but that would be a lie, and besides, Brian is already pulling him faster and faster across the field towards the black tarry pit of their churning, nauseating minds; and Eliot doesn't have to say anything. It's a child. A little boy: Eliot knew that already—seeing couldn't make it worse, surely? That raw, distilled misery: that comes from an animal or a child, and the Hollidays, at least, had never been cruel to their animals. Eliot barely perceives the dense, impressionist blotches of the huddled seething circle of backs, a herd of plaid and puffer vests and red hats, before Brian is shoving the closest man aside and bending down to scoop the kid up: a baby, really, dirty blond and wailing, from where he is sitting down onto the icy ground, and Brian is—

—and Eliot's brain wobbles, and tips, and then—

—slides.

 _because Quentin isn't a natural with Teddy and that's hard that's hard that's_ hard _, it's hard for Ari it's hard for the both of them for all of them because Quentin is stiff and awkward with their son but Eliot_ isn't _: he'd grown up with—with cousins and neighbors and community picnics and he'd done children's theater until his—until he had to stop and had babysat for Mrs. Potter so she could still run the elementary school music classes after the school eliminated her funding, so he—Eliot just always knew what to do with a baby, just like Arielle knows what to do with a baby: so the both of them have bodies that just sway, automatically, because spending time holding babies just_ does something _to the rest of your body, doesn't it? So they have bodies that rock Teddy automatically and support his head on reflex and change his diaper with a low standard of perfectionism and a high standard of efficiency and they know that they shouldn't drop him, ideally, and beyond that—: but Quentin is an only child from Jersey and so Quentin, mostly_ —

—doesn't.

"Jesus!" barks someone, from the other side of Brian; and Eliot turns towards him: and it's not like Eliot didn't know where he was it's not like he didn't understand what was happening but laid out in front of him like this, Gods, it's like his second-worst fucking nightmare: Brian, mostly unarmed, half-unmagicked, looking sweet and tender and unguarded, gently wiping the face of a dirty-blond toddler while closing in on him are eight huge dudes who like shotguns and Republican politics: Jesus fucking Christ, what was Eliot _thinking_? One of them is turning, reaching for—and Eliot doesn't let there be time enough to find out, just snaps his hands apart, half-snarling: and allatonce the men.

Freeze.

While Brian jiggles the baby. "You're okay," he's murmuring, "shh, it's okay, sweetheart, it's okay, you're just cold, aren't you, hm?" The baby's face is screwed up and red and snotty, taking a big wet, sobbing breath as Brian cups a hand around his head, murmuring down to him while he buries his face in Brian's chest. Easy. Automatic: _how?_ Eliot wants to ask, a sudden, desperate-hot rush of need; _how do you—do you have little brothers? cousins? nieces? kids?_ —but he knows, of course, doesn't he: because he's been inside Brian's head, and Brian has never so much as looked after a kid while its mom dashed down to the Kroger for more diapers; but his body is still swaying, isn't it, in that way your body just starts automatically swaying, when you've spent enough time with people handing you babies: and Eliot—Eliot was—he was, he is trying to hold onto but it _slips_ , then and one of the men jerks against the magic and Brian's left hand flies up, out, _pulls_ : and all eight men drop down to their knees.

Instinct. Automatic. All instinct, Eliot is reminding himself: shivering.

Shivering.

"Give me the baby," he says, low; which Brian just—just _does_ , for no good reason whatsoever, just turns to boost the baby's little warm squirmy body up against Eliot's chest, brushing a palm over his soft downy head. Automatic. Instinct. Eliot has a sharp, unbalanced moment of dual vision, just for an instant: on the one hand the field and the ice and this warm tow-headed squirming breathing little boy; and on the other, Quentin, sitting on the edge of the little bed to lower Teddy down against Eliot's chest and then following after: his eyes bruised and hollow in the firelight, just—just lying down, curling towards him, just _lying down together_ : it hadn't been a vow, breaking—it couldn't've been, because the magic had let them do it—but it had still felt drowningly, impossibly illicit: to have Quentin resting so close to him again that Eliot had felt that bone-deep battering wave of _togetherness_ , like lying together on that awful narrow bench of a bed with the baby fussing between them had been as good as pulling Quentin's body to his, his hands his skin his mouth, while Quentin's wife lay fast asleep on the other side of the fire. It had _felt_ good enough, almost. It had _been_ good enough, for a moment, nearly: and mouth and nose prickling Eliot ducks his mouth down to the baby's soft hair, looking—just barely in, just a peek: brushing a soothing palm across his cold wounded little spirit; touching _home_ and _mommy_ and _family_ just long enough to feel sick, and prickling, and _mad_. Eliot closes his eyes, and pushes: boosting the baby through the folded-up pocket of space between the field and the house, and then head empty hands empty chest empty Eliot opens his eyes on the beast held fast to Brian's left: Danny Holliday, frozen: arms-stretched-out pinned down his knees, his eyes twitching frantically from side to side at Brian and Eliot and his friends all caught silenced in the dirt in a circle as Brian presses himself up close to Eliot's body, blinking up at him with big, worried brown eyes. Eliot's mouth full up of Brian's hotclose familiar smell and the sour half-taste of liquor and ozone and the heavywet lowering fog that is everywhere, clinging to all of them in the silence: while the men are held frozen-still on their knees. It is, Eliot thinks, not unlike standing inside a cloud.

"El," Brian says, unsteady.

 _He needs—_ , Eliot thinks; and Brian huddles closer, wide-eyed, sliding his hand down to take Eliot's hand—              
            
" _Eliot_ ," Brian whispers; and then shivers up against him: because Brian—Brian is—because Brian is _turned on_ right now, his little warm body lit up on Eliot's magic seeping out through his warmclever untrained hands, on the cold and the adrenaline and—and on _touching_ : on the prickling tangled-up unwindable knot of their thoughts, feeling—hot, and satisfied, and _wet_ —Brian gasps—where under their skin they are still sliding together—

Eliot presses his forehead down against him, burning. Burning up: "I ought to," he says, and then stops: tasting the word in his throat in his lungs in the hollow-opening cavern of Brian's warm mouth: "kiss me," Brian breathes; and Eliot shudders all over, kissing him once hardfastright and then pulling. Back. Pulling back. Hands on Brian's lovely warm face as he pulls himself back—and back—and back.

Brian makes a noise. Pushing: pushing—closer—and Eliot shakes his head. Their faces rubbing together. One of the men makes a noise and Eliot's hand on Brian's hand moves—once, twice—and it quiets. Letting—letting them— _touch_ : Eliot feeling him like a sharp, glowing certainty all over, seeping up and out through his skin.

When he lifts his face Brian blinks up at him pink-cheeked and lush and lovely: he's still got blood in his hair. Eliot tucks it back, gentle, an odd sharp ache in his chest—

Brian asks, "Where are we, really?"

Eliot swallows. "Central Indiana," he says, and then: "or—you know"; and then shrugs, ducking his head. He'd meant it. "I know you wanted—I know you were aiming for New York."

"What's in Indiana?" Brian asks; and Eliot swallows.

"The baby," he says, helpless. "That—that little boy": and Brian cups his cheek.

"And you felt him," Brian says, quiet. "You felt him crying." His eyebrows are crooked, worried: Eliot can't quite look at him, when he rubs his thumb across Eliot's mouth.

Eliot takes a breath. "It's cold," he says, and starts unbuttoning his coat. "You're not dressed for the weather."

"The weather," Brian echoes; and then—

—slowly. As though he is, glacially, refocusing from—something else, he tips his face up towards the clouds.

"This," he says, and then stops, and looks back at Eliot, as Eliot eases the coat over Brian's arms, his huddled shoulders. "This can't be—it _must_ be May by now, though," Brian says, "it's been—a month and a half? Two?"; and Eliot shakes his head.

"Time passes differently, in other worlds." Eliot tugs the lapels close together. "It probably hasn't been as long for them, that's all": and then Brian grabs his wrist and squeezes, until Eliot, with some difficulty, meets his warm brown eyes.  
          
All around them the field is silent. 

Held stilled.

Eliot can feel the thrumming-taut pressure on the edges of his power: the twisting-hot _spike_ of—of Danny, trying to force his way up and towards them. Eliot turns towards him, palm out; and cold shivers out across the field, crumpling Danny forward, while Eliot draws Brian close against his chest.

"Is he okay?" Brian asks. "I mean. The baby." 

"Noah's fine," Eliot says, quiet. "I sent him home, to his grandma"; and "Noah," Brian repeats, hunching up inside Eliot's black coat.

Noah. The baby: Brian tipping his face down: away, barely, as the edges of his face are flushing a tender shell pink. _Oh_ , Eliot thinks, because—because _Brian_ is thinking about a baby: not—not _their_ baby, but _a_ baby: Eliot catches a wisp of a little fat all-wrong Earth baby in a duck onesie and a fuzzy yellow hat; Brian's confused, tangled wave of something that isn't longing and isn't grief and isn't— _not_ , really, either of those things, at the heart of it: his desperate agonized grasping for—for all the bits that are _missing_ from him: Eliot, magic, his _life_ , all the bits that—that people with power just decided to _take_ ; and cold sharp armor steeling up inside him, Eliot turns: a flick of his wrist, so that Danny, stumbling justenough to hit his feet, lands with his throat in Eliot's iron-forged outstretched clawed hand.

His eyes. Green. Whites all over, showing all around.

"He did it on purpose," Eliot says, very quietly. "He pushed him. Not the first time—the first time, Noah just fell, because he's two and that's—that's what it means, _toddler_ , right? So he fell down because he's not good at walking yet because he's not supposed to be and the ground was cold, and it hurt, so he cried, but boys _don't_ cry, do they, so when he got his feet back under him, his dad pushed him over." He takes a breath. "And the next time, when Noah got up again but didn't stop crying, Danny pushed him down again. And again. And again, because Noah just wouldn't stop crying." 

" _God_ ," Brian is saying, very low, and then taking a deep, unsteady breath as he turns his face in against Eliot's shoulder, clinging to Eliot's shirt two-handed, back and front. Eliot blinks, feeling—

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know.

"Two and a half," Eliot explains, half-turning. "Not a baby anymore. Time to make a man out of him, you know?" and Brian slides his arms down to wrap, tight and trembling, around Eliot's hollow cavernous waist.

"Or maybe it was just a warm-up," Eliot says, and looks back at the thing in his hand. "Given what Danny likes to do to his wife."

All around them: silence. That heavy frozen-taut magical-stilled silence, outside. Inside the churning black tornado of their tangled demon-thoughts someone is screaming, screaming—incoherent, un-worded: Nick, probably—loud enough Eliot can hear it without really listening; but staring at Danny's red furious face and his overgelled dirt-colored hair, Eliot doesn't care: Danny's never been the looker, of the Holliday family, but with Eliot's hand on his windpipe while Danny stares at him wild-eyed through the blazing white static in his mind he's hideous, monstrous; and Eliot—Eliot could kill him, he's realizing: he could kill him, with a single soft squeeze of his bulging frog throat.

"What," Brian whispers, and then presses his face to his shoulder and shivers. "What are you going to do to him?"

And Eliot—Eliot can _feel_ him: the tangled wetslick feeling of Brian reaching for him: his touch inside his body, the salty-bright tang of him eeling against Eliot, into him: and Eliot shivers all over, and lets—

—lets the net—

—drop.

Everything then happens extraordinarily fast. Eliot's never thought much of Danny Holliday, but _violence_... well, _that_ he did expect. Danny lashes out flailing and kicking, clawing at Eliot's hand as it tightens—tightens—and someone is pelting full-speed for the truck while Eliot is crumpling up their phones in their pockets and Eliot, Eliot could, it's not like Chris could _hurt_ them even if he did get to the guns but Brian is turning his hands out snarling grabbing for Chris anyway: throwing out fat, unpracticed pink-and-gold tethers that catch at Chris's wrists and his ankles and drag him—shouting, kicking—back across the Hollidays' frozen black ground: fuck, Chris fucking Madigan, now _there's_ a man. Danny is yelling and slamming his hand against Eliot's shoulder, which is annoying and then he hits wrong and his fist meets Brian's shoulder and Eliot drops him to throw the shield up a half-instant too late as Brian's hold on the great thrumming borrowed sun of Eliot's power slips and he— _pulls_ —toohard and Chris—

—slidesallthewayintothem in a tangle of his sour-surging sharp-edged all-wrong crashing thoughts: a mess of money blood heat noses velvety ears paws and her—tongue—and then Eliot shoves him back away from them, stomach roiling, as beside him Brian is doubling over, retching: throwing up water and bile, shoulders shaking, as Eliot keeps him just-barely from collapsing onto the ground—

"You," he says, and then stops; as Brian grabs at Eliot's hand, shaking: Eliot gasps for breath; his eyes filling up. Helpless. Raw: his _dogs_ , Gods, his _puppies_ , making them— _Gods_ , what kind of—what kind of a sick fucking— _abomination_ —and Brian, halfway to hyperventilating, gasps out, "His—his _dogs_ —" and a meaty-hot fist is smashing over and over and over again against the edges of the shimmering-gold shield, shouting, as they are swimming-tangled up in

snapping snarling _hungry_ good crowd tonight Champion and Drago leaping together with an earth-shaking crash as his fingers fold bills and Eliot flinches, holding Brian close against him, trying—trying not to—not to be remembering Daisy's wet warm nose and her soft soft ears when she'd nuzzled her head under his hand in the barn when—when the farmer'd been raging all tangled up with Spartan's blunt snarling teeth: the dumb, cringing way Storm'd whined just before he'd—but that wasn't that wasn't him that wasn't them that wasn't— _us_ —

"God," Brian gasps, " _God_ ": wet-faced, red: the little trembling-hot knot of his body as Eliot puts his arms around him oh, no, no, _Brian_ , love— _no_ —and Gods, if there was any fucking light in the world, Eliot would—Eliot'd be able to—keep it _away_ from him, walled away from him, tuck Brian's warm face against him and hold him close, tight, still, _safe_ but Chris is—Chris is struggling up to his hands and his knees unsteady just-inside the arcing bubble of the shield as it ripples and glows under the hands of the men shouting and battering at its edges because _that is what is hidden inside him_ and stomach roiling face burning up Eliot jerks his palm out, slicing a hardfastright line through nothing and Chris drops to the ground, exploding wet all over the insides of the shield. 

It feels hot, after the fog.

Eliot's heart thuds. Hard. Tucking Brian back still shivering against his body, holding.

Holding on.

"What," Brian wobbles. "What are." Thick. His shoulders shaking: Eliot fits his hand over the soft back of his head; and then reaches the other to peel open.

The petals.

Of the shield.

They come.

Danny is first shouting some incoherent screaming bullshit about his kid, his boy, his son, like Danny'd ever done anything to make himself a father so Eliot grabs him by the hair shoving a dishrag into his mouth: "Gwen doesn't like it, either, you know," Eliot tells him, half-seeing—Danny's wife, with her makeup perfect and her hair glossy and straight, smiling up at him tentatively, because she—she's always just—she's so fucking—and Eliot slams every inch of himself out like—wings—to block it from Brian still huddled up shivering against-inside him, as deep deep down in the three of them Danny smashes one huge meaty hand into his wife's soft face. Her hair knotting up in his hand and her knees dragging on the floor and her—voice, her annoying fucking—gerbil noises—and Eliot, he has to, he has to pull back, he can't—he can't hold it up anymore while Danny is shoving the soapy dishrag into Gwen's mouth so she won't—and Eliot. Eliot is trembling, he shouldn't—how could, how could he, how _could_ he? Feeling—feeling Ora's soft hair, her warm hands, Brian's tender fragile body in his arms and how could anyone—and shivering Brian presses his mouth to Eliot's jaw, his throat, his cheek, shaking his head his head his head as Eliot tells Danny, sick all over: "but what does it matter, if she doesn't like it, hm?"; and then shudders as Danny squeezes his eyes shut tight, making a rough, meaning-free noise around fabric.

Eliot takes a breath. Another: his body a bridge a wall a shield standing between Brian and Danny fucking Holliday: "I should've started with you," Eliot tells him, throat tight. "I half want to waste the energy to wind time back, just so I can—but. Best conserve, don't you think, with this crowd?" And Nick's got a crowbar from somewhere so Eliot pulls the shield back up over Brian leaving—leaving just enough room to—and it would be Nick, of _course_ , Eliot thinks, sick, because Danny is _family_ ; so Eliot throws Nick down so his loud shit-spilling mouth scrapes against frozen dirt while Eliot is squeezing Danny's throat as Danny smacks his fist into Eliot's nose, which is annoying, so Eliot breaks Danny's: Danny yells, or tries to, anyway; so Eliot shoves the dishrag deeper into his mouth. He feels like laughing, nearly: blood is streaming from Danny's nose, soaking the ends of the dishrag, and on the one side of Eliot is Brian, little and warm and—and precious, _precious_ , _magical_ : and on the other is Danny. All wrong. Hideous. Grotesque, like Nick's scrabbling half-pinned desperate caterwauling on the ground as shouting he tries to—claw—his way out from under the blanketing of what makes Eliot Eliot so Eliot flicks his hand down so it seals up, closes over, what used to be Nick's mouth while Danny kicks at Eliot's shins scratching at his arm his face his wrist like— _like a girl_ , Eliot thinks with a bright hot flare of satisfaction: "Pweaf," Danny manages, and Eliot's back prickles, all his—fur— "Ff—," Danny gargles, around the dishrag, " _pw_ —": begging, isn't he, but that doesn't stop him, did it? It just makes him hit her harder, because he fucking _likes_ it, Eliot can _feel_ it, his crowing exultation in the sharphot taste of her misery and her fear and Eliot feels it rising in him on a sick tide of panic that is surging up in his chest with his fist knotted up on Danny's neck and his other hand tangled up hot with Brian's sticky hair and Eliot gasps and shoves the dishrag in deeper, and deeper, and deeper, and _deeper_ : until Danny stops making any noise at all.

The fog. 

The fog, the blanketing icy fog—

—and the men, stopped and staring, all stilled except for Nick, still mouthless and clawing, pinned in the dirt where he belongs.

"Well," Eliot says, and tosses what used to be Danny aside.

The men flinch. Cower. But not Brian. Not his Brian: looking up at him with burning, furious black eyes. 

Eliot touches his cheek. His hand smearing—wet—feeling the electric-bright chemical fizz of their magic humming through the both of them, unspooling the twisted-up knotted mass in his throat and his chest and his barely-healed liver, as Brian pushes up onto his toes to—nuzzle—

"Hey!" someone shouts—

—and Eliot lifts his face to look at Jack fucking Swain, tense and humming, arms crossed over his chest hands tucked into his armpits, as eyes burning he asks Eliot, "You have a plan, hm? You think this ends okay for you?"

Eliot blinks. "Do I—," he says, and then stops; as Brian turns, only just, angling his body away just enough to look at him and don't, don't, _don't_ , baby, he's not worth—

"You think you can come here," Jack is saying, taking a half step closer, "after—with your, your little boyfriend—"

"Husband," Brian snaps, sharp; and Eliot jerks his head up to look at him sideways, actually—actively—startled. 

Brian is staring over at Jack, arms crossed, in Ben Harwood's black wool coat, eyes glittering, mouth flat: and _of course_ , Eliot is thinking, _because I told him—_ , around an odd, twisting knot: _but that was a lie_.

"Oh, honeymoon trip?" Jack is asking, and then he laughs; while Brian snarls, "None of your fucking business," while Eliot thinking half-thinks half-un—thinks and then can't, can't, can't: the hot furious surge of Brian pressing uphardintoagainst him, remembering un-remembering half-remembering as they are feeling their hands held together their fingers knotted together looking up at him raw with adoration as Brian is helping Eliot up to his feet and beside them, beside them, standing beside them in—in pink—

—and Eliot flinches against a blinding flash of magnesium-bright white, stumbling.

Back.

" _Yeah_ ," Jack says, "because you rolling up to—to _murder_ people, out here in the flyover states, we just let that one—": and Eliot jerks his hands up out twist and then—then he doesn't—he doesn't even need to move them anymore as the deep, dark well at the core of the Earth locks into him, and then pours—

—out.

Jack stumbles. It draws—it is drawing them—it is _pushing_ them, the massive, inexorable pressure of entire planetary masses, shoving them down to their knees: the others are already writhing in the dirt like the worms that are higher than them when Jack finally goes down, Eliot whipping up 3/8" rope all along their wrists and their ankles and—and bandanas tied through their—mouths—pulling them down into little neatly tied-up bound-fast animal packages, like every good farmboy learns in nine fucking years of the nonconsensual application of his local 4-H club; and then Eliot turns back to Brian, who is black-eyed and trembling with it, grabbing for the placket of Eliot's shirt to draw him down into a shivering, tremulous kiss. He feels—he feels so _tender_ : Brian's vast, shaky, immeasurable need, his hands warm on Eliot's cold face and his throat and his shoulders while frantic Brian is whispering, "He won't do it again—they won't do it again, will they? will they," over and over, as he pulls Eliot's hand up to his face. Kissing his palm, the back of his knuckles: _Gods_ , those eyes— "God," Brian is gasping, "God, _Eliot_ —"; and Eliot shivers all over, pulling him.

Close.

Brian wraps his arms around Eliot's waist. Pressing his face—

"We should leave them," Eliot whispers. "We should just—it's going to snow. It's about to snow, love, it's—it's so cold out here, we should—we should just leave, we should leave them." 

It's so cold. Eliot ought to get Brian inside.

"We should leave," Eliot says, as Brian lifts up his face: his heart thuds in his chest; and Brian blinks up at him, lips parting. "We should leave them," Eliot repeats, and then shivers around the idea, unfolding its long graceful tendrils inside him, black and gold: "We should leave them," Brian agrees; and then says, "It's going to snow."

It is. It's going to—it _is_ snowing, almost: the icy-thick muffling fog that is prickling on Eliot's hands and his throat at his open collar: Brian's eyes are wide and getting wider as voice—tightening, hopping up, he says, "You're not wearing a jacket, El," against the first edge of something like panic, "you're going to—you need to be—it's too cold for anyone to not be wearing a jacket, you need—"

—and Eliot reaches two hands through the membrane of world and grabs the first thing to hand: quilted, a mustardy yellow with little white dots, warm and smelling of sweat and war and sex, and Brian sways up against him, dark-eyed pink-cheeked and pressing up to kiss him again, desperate and tender and needful, as Eliot slithers it on.    

"It's okay," Eliot whispers. Cupping Brian's hot face. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's _okay_ , see? It's warm, you keep me warm—I want, I'm going to keep you safe."

"God," Brian gasps; and then laughs, a bleak, all-wrong wet sound; and then he turns his wet eyes down towards Jack Swain, towards P—towards Bobby Hemmings trying to use the ground to wriggle the wreckage of his phone out of his pocket—much good may it do him—towards Tim McEwan's blank stunned-dumb meaty expression and the tears streaming down Scott Grady's pale cheeks: towards Nick fucking Holliday, curled up on the ground with the blankflatsmooth stretch of skin where his mouth used to be, still pawing his tied hands frantically at his brother's dead purple slack face. 

"We can keep them safe," Eliot murmurs, and then rubs his sleeve against Brian's red-smeared hot cheek: "don't worry," he whispers, "they won't—they won't do it ever again, I'm going to keep you both safe," and presses a kiss to Brian's forehead, turning back.

He reaches out down. Drawing Nick. Closer.

"Both," Brian echoes, behind him; as Nick makes a frantic, muffled noise as Eliot draws him up so his chest fits flat against his hand. He could, he could reach in, couldn't he? He could just reach in and hold it, _pin_ it, trap the hard crumbling rock he keeps in place of a heart—

"Hi, Nick," Eliot says, very softly; and then knots his hand up in Nick's shirtfront as he tells him, "You will never, ever find her": and then reaches—

— _who—?_ —

—as he reaches—

—into the space where Nick throws them when he's done with them: all the women Eliot didn't know to protect and can't go back far enough to save, feeling Nick inside him like a caged rabid beast, snarling and slavering at the barrier between him and Brian: Nick, who wasn't like Danny, who'd never hit any of them because he'd never had to: easy enough to get them alone in your truck, out by Youngs Creek, nice and dark out there, too far to run; or just corner them at a party when they'd had three or four too many, so wasted they wouldn't even make you take them upstairs; or that time in high school you went over to Lauren Anderson's house and I still feel her like a little battering bird in my chest but you hardly even remember her, do you? Her parents had had to go into the city so her mom had called your mom so you knew you knew they had gone to the hospital so you knew they'd left her alone, and she was so _little_ , wasn't she? She was so _small_ for a sophomore, with those big blue eyes and that, _that_ , you thought that was _fun_ , didn't you? And I will hold you back like a dam because you got to do it to her with all the lights on because she was so, so scared of you, too scared to say anything about it at all, just clammed right up and went limp and let you do whatever you wanted in her own house with all the lights on while her parents were in Indianapolis at the hospital and that, _that_ was just enormous fun, knowing that that'd be what she'd remember about the day her grandmother died but you, you, you've done it so many times in the eight years since then that you hardly even remember but _I_ remember, _I_ can see it, I could stick my hands into every tarry-black knotted pothole of your soul and pull up every one of their names and their faces but I won't, not now, because I won't I can't would never, ever let him see it and

and Eliot

Eliot has a sharp confused flare of Brian—Brian—?

(frozen)

onabedinaroomina

—, as—h ands—

against the blazing surge of a round beloved warm face and a pointy determined little chin and her sharp-furrowed mulish brows did she learn that expression from him or did he learn it from—her—and—Brian gasps and Eliot, Eliot, Eliot has to—throwing himself back up between—between—everyone, all—all threefourfive—six—six?—of them, confused, ill-aimed, half—wrapping around him between the firelight and the flare and the hideous vision of a ram-horned man-beast and running in the woods where she stumbles and he has to help her up but he can't he can't he can't— _help_ her—remembering—remembering. Remembering—her couch her sconce her cigarettes her curledup red-eyed tensed body shaking hands, her round luminous wet face—and Brian sobs, "K- _Kimmy_ ," and Eliot, Eliot can't, he needs to (—pink—) _protect_ them and half-blind with fury he turns, snarling; and snaps Nick's neck.

Before him. Nick's body, half in focus: sharpening, somehow, through the fuzzing damp veil of the low clinging mist; and Brian hot and trembling, a half-step away. Eliot drops him: on top of Danny, probably, doesn't care. Stumbling over to Brian standing frozen stock-still with wet tracks running down through the constellations spattered red on his cheeks which Eliot cups, tipping them up, looking down at Brian's hazy eyes, trembling wet lashes—

"Are you okay," Eliot asks, very low, "are you okay, are you—"

"That," Brian says, and then stops.

That—that flash. Eliot can't— _remember_ , was it—did he—

"Was that—was it him?" Eliot asks, voice wound so tight it cracks halfway through. "Did he—put that in you, did he—" because Eliot, Eliot could wind time back enough to kill Nick again if he needs to, take—take him apart one—one ounce at a time, that would be—he would start—he'd start with his dick, his ears, his feet, all the bits of him that would hurt most as Eliot started just—plucking—them—apart with, with—with his fingers, or—or a castration bander—

"No—o," Brian is saying, hesitant, and then he shifts, blinking: "But," he says, very slowly, "that—it wasn't me, either."

Eliot breathes. Breathes.

Breathes—

—and it's going to snow, Eliot knows: it's already so cold and it's going to start snowing in seventeen minutes, and then where will they be? and there is a slow, softening sinkhole opening up somewhere at his center because if it wasn't if it wasn't if it wasn't Nick and it wasn't Brian and it wasn't him and it wasn't the animal and he's pretty fucking sure it didn't come from anything else they used to be, then it was—

—then it was—

—and Eliot feels a low, dark baying starting up somewhere so deep inside him that he can barely hear it, as across from him Brian's expression is shifting, and then—sharpens—

"Nick," Brian says, "you called him—"

And Eliot. "—What?"

Blinking.

"You said, 'hi, Nick.' Didn't you. _Didn't you_. But we came—you told me we came here for Noah." Brian's face is flushing, a slow creeping pink wave rising up from his collar, a jarring clashing contrast beneath the blood drying on him all over: "You're hiding from me," Brian says, very low, "you're—you're _hiding_ things from me, you—you _knew_ him, you _know_ them— _why are we in Indiana_ , Eliot?"

"I," Eliot says, and then stops; as facing from him, Brian crosses his arms.

Eliot. Turns. 

" _Eliot_ ," Brian says, sharp; and Eliot points at Scott's bound-and-gagged trembling tear-stroked huddle, and says, "He coaches the football team. The lives of—of all those boys. That've passed through his hands."

"He's _our age_ ," Brian snaps, sharp; and Eliot shakes his head.

"He's a little older than you," he says absently, and then.

Takes a breath. 

It's cold. It's cold, and there is—there are—little, prickling sparks, starting: sharp against Eliot's forehead, his eyelashes; showing on the sleeves of Scott's grey thermal as minuscule freckles that darken as they bloom. Scott is looking up at Eliot with a cracked-open expression, an expression of—an expression that—that Eliot knows down to his heart and his blood and his bones. "Scott Grady," Eliot explains, feeling—empty. Hollow: "is a fine, upstanding young gentleman of this community"; and down on his knees in the dirt Scott—

—flinches.

It's—it's disappointing, almost. Standing soclosesoclose to him: almost closer than he's standing to Brian, still tangled up with Brian's warm soft coiling-seeking tendrils, the sharp-lashing edge of his anger just prickling at Eliot's edges; and then—Scott fucking Grady, kneeling before him, face red and blotchy, eyes tight at their corners. In pain. 

"You know him," Brian says, flat. "You—Jesus, you—you did grow up here, didn't you?"; and Eliot waves a hand, Scott's gag unraveling, the bandana fluttering down to the ground.

Wet already. From his mouth.

"How's the football team, Scott?" Eliot asks, even though he doesn't need to; and Scott flinches again, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

A memory. Two—three—seven—ninety-five: it's important not to underestimate the nuances, Eliot thinks, of psychological torture. Scott _hadn't_ hurt Eliot, not really, not directly, not much; but he'd—he'd still been—in middle school, he'd been the kind of boy who, if he wasn't, just at that precise moment, flushing your sketchbooks in the second-floor toilet, was probably planning to do it tomorrow—but that was—middle school, of course, Eliot thinks, with an odd, complicated pang: he doesn't understand. Can't. By high school Scott'd been—inoffensive, basically, hadn't he? In most ways. The sort of dumb musclebound jock that'd always made Eliot feel like an alien, but really, who didn't? (Kenneth. Ora. _Quentin_.) But whatever boring, normal trajectory Scott Grady had been on when he'd headed to Bloomsburg eight years ago—beer; football; the usual unacknowledged homoerotic stylings of Greek life with his brothers in ATO—it'd ended, all at once, hadn't it? On the nineteenth of November—and Scott yanks himself back, gasping: his eyes shut tight. Tight. Tight.

"What the fuck are you doing, Eliot," Brian says, flat; and Eliot says, "Looking": and then—he takes a breath.

"Pl-lease," Scott says, and his voice wobbles. Sliding down. His face bowed—

"I think you should look me in the eye," Eliot says, very softly, "and ask me again": and then flicks his fingers up. It doesn't take any more than that: Scott's chin lifting, lifting, until he starts having so much trouble getting a breath that Eliot has to stop: that won't do at all. He can't beg like that. "Go on," Eliot tells him; and Scott makes a noise, and then grinds out, "Don't—please don't—whatever you're doing, please, please, _please_ , don't make me see it again."

Eliot turns, a bit. "See," Eliot explains, to Brian, "he doesn't want me to go poking around on the nineteenth of November, because he doesn't want to have to look at the boy he killed—and you did kill him, Scott, let's just—start out being really clear about that": and Scott makes another high, sharp-edged sound. "Scott, here," Eliot tells Brian, "teaches PE, too. In addition to just _sterling_ work coaching—well, 'coaching'—" air quotes— "the football team. Nice work if you can get it, isn't it? Coming back to your hometown to bully adolescent boys _professionally_ —"

"I didn't, I didn't want—" Scott stops. Swallows. "I didn't mean—I never wanted. To _hurt_ him, I just—"

"See, this is really the part of the local psychology I don't get," Eliot says, back—bristling—with the snow falling in pinprick-points that burst steaming on his face and his hands and the back of his neck: "and I mean—you're right," Eliot concedes. Spreading his hands, as he glances back towards Brian. "I did grow up here, or—I spent some time here, anyway, before they locked me up in the Castle, so if anyone ought to understand how the local populace reasons, surely it ought to be me—and, I mean, okay, sure, Scott, you don't want to hurt anyone, tremendously big of you, but what, precisely, _do_ you want to do? When you tell fourteen-year-old boys that they're pussies because they can't run a mile in eight minutes, tell them the only thing that matters is that they be men and that the only thing that'll make them men is winning—when, after all, half of them always lose, don't they?" Eliot says. "Please, by all means, do correct me if I'm wrong: I'm pretty sure that's how it works, but I'm—I'm just really not into sports, so."

"You're not wrong," Scott whispers; and then closes his eyes.

"What happened?" Brian asks, quiet. Coming closer.

"Oh, what do you think happened?" Eliot says, annoyed. "An undergrown sophomore hanged himself after a bad week getting shouted at every day on the field, and this treasure of masculine competence over here took twenty-six minutes to be sure, absolutely certain, you understand, that there was no way he was going to get that cleared out of his locker room without calling 911."

"Jesus," Brian mutters; and then—

—and then turns his face down, pressing it in against Eliot's jacket.

And Eliot—

"Even though he's the one who _put_ him there," Eliot says. He feels—he feels like he is—watching. Like he is watching a—a public service announcement, or something: Scott rolling out inside of him like a twelve-minute poorly-acted lesson on how not to be: "Even though," Eliot narrates, obediently, "even though he put him there—a year and two months, relentless, of that boy hurting like that, just because you wanted to make a man out of him, so he knew, he _knew_ , he spent a whole fucking year knowing that he just wasn't good enough, that he wasn't going to be—so if I was aiming for something like, you know, justice, that's what I'd do to you," Eliot tells him. "A year and two months, of seeing that boy's body in every mirror—"

"I already do," Scott whispers; and Eliot laughs.

"Oh," he says, "but not the way _I'd_ make you": and Scott gasps, two fat shining tear-tracks running down his face. 

Eliot takes a step towards him. Brian's hand sliding— "I learned something from you, you know," Eliot tells Scott, as Brian catches hot at Eliot's fingers, "all those years you were stealing its knives and tearing up its library books—best to keep it a _surprise_ , Scott! Best to do it just often enough to keep it _afraid_ of it happening all the time, and not frequently enough for it to get used to it, right?"

Scott gasps; so Eliot kicks him. "Am I right?" Eliot repeats; and Scott.

Trembling.

Nods.

"Yeah," Eliot agrees. "So I know how to hurt you, _really_ hurt you, if I need to—and a year and two months: I mean, really, don't be such a _pussy_ , Scott! That's a slap on the wrist, for killing someone. That's just like—oh, like being suspended— _suspended_ , Brian, they didn't even _fire_ him—isn't that right, Scotty?" He laughs. "Back next season!" He throws up his hands. "Whipping our boys into shape!"

"Eliot," Brian whispers, and catches his wrist again.

"I mean, I still think you'd be getting off easy," Eliot tells Scott, even as Brian—as Brian is—as trembling beside him Brian is winding their fingers together, holding—holding on: "Honestly, the first person—the first person I killed, Gods!" He laughs, wild and snarled, feeling—feeling Kenneth's—Kenneth's fists against his burning body, smelling—smelling the battered bloody remnants of him, after the bus'd stopped. Tasting bitter-chalky cheap chocolate, caught at the edges of Eliot's empty mouth. "If _only_ I'd gotten a year and two months, after, of seeing him every time I looked at you," Eliot says, "at all of you fucking—if _only_ I'd known I had—a year, one fucking year and two months, and then—that then after that I'd just—"

He snaps his fingers.

And—

 _Just_ , he is thinking, _just like that_.         

"El—baby—" Brian whispers; and something—

—and something is—

something is shifting something is _moving around_ something is—is still living somewhere in that pit down deep inside him and next to him Brian is a hot, agonized little column of anger and misery and _God_ , it's _Brian_ , how—how could he—how could he've—

—and Eliot. Turns. Because he can't—

—but Brian's arms are already slotting around him: "I want— _God_ , what they did to you," Brian whispers, fumbling between them, "I want—I want to—": and Eliot hears him, he _hears_ him, he hears the bright-clanging din of it as clearly as if Brian had shouted it outloud: Brian's warm trembling solid little body, the hot achy thrum of his heart, and underneath all of it pulling-petting at Eliot with Brian's eyes aching his throat aching his—hand—hollow and aching where he could—where he should just—where he is thinking, _I want, I want to, I want to kill them all myself_.

Eliot. Breathing in, deep: because he can't—he doesn't—he wants, he wants, he _wants to protect him_ , he needs—he needs to—to _keep him safe_ and beside them, Scott Grady makes an odd, gurgling sound, and then—

—thuds.

On the other side of Eliot, Brian is—Brian is still—he is hurting: Brian presses his face to Eliot's throat.

"I'm sorry," Brian whispers, "Christ, I'm so sorry, El—"

And Eliot—Eliot doesn't, he doesn't know why—why Brian feels like he has to—

"You didn't," he says, "you didn't do anything"; and Brian shakes his head, hard, pushing up onto his toes to press their foreheads together. That little bright knot of him, where it is—where he is—where he is pushing—pushing _back_ : pushing past without letting go of all the tender-soft places where he is a honey-gold clinging warm hand on—on every seeking starving part of Eliot's slavering need for him, to—to tangle, instead, like crawling ivy against the crumbling bricks blocking off the—the rest of him: all of the filthy bloody broken-edged bits that Eliot—that Eliot doesn't—that Eliot doesn't want him to have to—

 _Shhhhh_ , the ivy is whispering, _pulling_ , _shhh, shhhhhhhhh, baby—_ please—

"Don't," Eliot gasps, jerking—

— _back_ —

Brian lifts up his hands.

Eliot's heart. It is pounding. Pounding. Pounding: crossing his arms—his arms over his—

"It's okay," Brian says, stepping. Closer. "It's okay, El, it's just me. You can let me—"

"I don't want—," Eliot says, tongue thick, "I don't want you to have to see it, baby, why—why would you want to—"; just as—

—just as Jack—

—gives a short sharp yell getting—

—his _hands_ together, shoving them out towards—towards _Brian_ , who stumbles in the shattering concussive shock of it: a single bright, grapefruit-sour blast that rocks the ground underneath them, Jack shoving the unraveled ropes off—off his wrists, off his ankles—as Eliot grabs Brian and shoves him bodily behind him lifting up around them the groaning wet breath of the cold as shouting Jack stumbles half-speed towards them, palms out: fingers twisting in a weak, glittery working—half illusion, honestly—that just bursts against the ball of the storm walled up whirling around them and disintegrates, leaving Jack hunched and panting, barely keeping himself up on his feet, until Eliot crooks a finger, and just—tugs him—through.

"That," Eliot tells him, "was an extraordinarily bad idea": as shivering up tight againsthimbehindhim, Brian presses his face to the jacket, just between Eliot's prickling shoulderblades.

"He's a magician," Brian whispers. Sliding his arm around Eliot's waist. "I can't, I don't—I don't know if I can help, baby—"

—and Eliot laughs. Surprised.

"He's not a magician," Eliot says, "he's—like a level-twenty hedge, _maybe_ ": and Eliot waves a hand towards him, jerking Jack's hands down, arms straight, knees locked, feet frozen, every nerve in his wrists going to sleep sleep sleep as Eliot flicks Jack's chin up: looking his pale sullen face, his scraggly orange-soda beard: "Really he's just your average garden-variety pervert," Eliot explains. "He manages the Walmart out in Newbern, and he's got nannycams up in all the dressing rooms."

"Shut your fucking mouth, you—sick fucking _freak_ —," Jack snarls; and Eliot says, "Hm, _am_ I, though? In _this_ crowd, with _you_ here, with all your secret footage of girls wriggling into their swimsuits—"

"Fuck you, I don't fucking—I like—yes, fine, I like it when women take their tops off, but I'm not—I'm not some kind of _pedo_ , or—or whatever you're trying to— _fuck_ —" Jack is still trying to yank at the spell, which is—boring, so Eliot makes him stop. "What—what the fuck are you _doing_ ," Jack moans; as Brian.

Brian kisses.

The nape of Eliot's neck. 

Prickling. All over, as Eliot goes.

Still.

Brian kisses him again. Just—just where the snow is catching, sharp and painful, inside the upturned edge of Eliot's jacket collar.

"What did he do to you, baby," Brian asks him, very quietly, sliding an arm around his waist; and Eliot—

—Eliot takes a slow, trembling breath. 

"I had—I had a friend, in high school," Eliot explains, "she was—he wouldn't stop hassling her, he—"

Brian presses his nose against him. Cold, his breath warm, whispering, "What happened to her?"; and Eliot—Eliot has a single sharp flash of black curls bending forward, shoulders shaking with laughter, in the line outside—

—outside—

"I don't," Eliot says, and then stops. "I don't—remember," he says, uncertainly, as Brian is—is petting, petting-in gentle against—against the bits of Eliot that are—are throbbing—throbbing around a confused, churning un-knowledge of—of An—ge—of A—of oh but what does it matter, when it'd mean—something miles and miles and _miles_ away, not interesting, not like _Jack_ , not like a—a fucking low-level hedge in fucking nowhere Indiana who moonlights as a mod on r/motorsports and learnt cantrips in the tidy bare front room where Mrs. Blecker also gave violin lessons with her binders of Suzuki sheet music tucked in next to imperfectly-translated treatises on interplanar theory (— _oh_ —? Brian is whispering as) Jack who robbed four markets with a heavy black gun that vanished into nothing the second he'd got out of the range of the security cameras for the money that he'd used to pay Mrs. Blecker, that he'd sunk into his sister's meds (— _sister_ —) and gas for the drive to visit her, for frisbees and Thundershirts for his two idiot dogs (— _shuddering_ —), for his new black Chevy and repairs to the septic system but it hadn't lasted, had it? Because the money never went as far as you thought it would and then there would be the next cold scrabbling miserable winter, and he'd do anything, _anything_ to not spend another fucking Black Friday flogging cheap hunting gear and tinsel: he'd rob every convenience store in the Indianapolis metropolitan area, he'd sell his own fucking kidney, he'd sell—the pictures, the _pictures_ , there had to be _someone_ who'd—

—and Jack groans, flinching, cracking six bones to get his fingers free, as Eliot slams himself out-up-sheltering a half-second too late, Brian tensing up everywhere behind him as furious Eliot shoves all his talons into Jack's beating hot heart.

Jack blinks. Just the once, and then—Eliot yanks his hands back. Just. Just hands. Brian pressed tight to his back with—with that—with that—that awful—; and heart pounding Eliot pushes out, only-just, to tip Jack away from them. To the side. Turning to pet Brian's cheek, his throat, his—shoulders: "Are you okay," Eliot says, very low, "are you—"

"Eliot," Brian says, soft, "did you kill him because he showed me that there are people who sell illegal nudes on the internet?"

—and Eliot—

—Eliot—

"That's," Eliot starts, with his—his heart pounding— "no, that's just—"

Breathing in as—

"That'd be," Eliot says, unsteady; and Brian reaches up, and touches Eliot's cheek.

"What'd they do to you, baby," Brian says, very gently; and Eliot closes his eyes.

"It's not about me," he whispers.

With a beloved bare hand stroking cold, he's cold, we ought to, down the side of his face and his jaw and his throat as Brain says, very quietly, "It is for me."

Pressing his forehead. Up.

The men. The men. The three men left breathing: Tim McEwan, whose eyes started leaking almost half an hour ago and haven't stopped for a second; Bobby Hemmings, staring at Jack's oozing body with his mind a churning buzzing ball of blank, static-fuzzed horror; and the last, the last, who—but Eliot, Eliot doesn't want—he doesn't want to _think_ about it: the huge, blank glacier of emptiness where he'd still been trapped, when he'd—when he'd last stood in the middle of the Holliday field—

Brian touches Eliot's cheek. "They hurt you," he says, quiet.

"They hurt lots of people," Eliot explains.

"They hurt _you_ ," Brian repeats, with his—warm breathing-in—chest—

"It was a long time ago," Eliot says, blinking: the snow. He can feel—he can feel Brian— _stroking_ him again, that little—that gentle little caressing curl: his hands on the edges of—of a heavy locked nailed-shut waterlogged chest down at the bottom of him, just—just petting at—at the edges. Of the lid. "It's so," Eliot says; as inside him Brian is whispering, _ugly?_ : and Eliot shudders all over as wrapping—up—finger—after—finger—Brian is writing out into him: no part of you is ugly. And Eliot. And Eliot is—he is shudderingly certain that Brian—that Brian shouldn't—that Brian needs to be safe cared for protected but—but something is—but the animal inside him is—is holding him back with its teeth in his wrist and its big dumb brown animal eyes and so Eliot—he—he _lets_ him, he lets him, he lets Brian kneeling down inside him pet gentle warm hands to open up the wood in the snow which is falling heavily, now, thick and muffling and wet: a heavy-white obscuring blanket nearly—nearly covering up Chris Madigan who always was, of all of them, the best looking: a lean, smooth-faced boy with an impossibly perfect jawline who'd grown into a lean, artfully-stubbled man with an impossibly perfect jawline and Eliot had never exactly had to bother with a sexual identity crisis, or an agonizing decision about when and how and whether to come out, or any of the other traditional paraphernalia of growing up queer in a red state small town, since he had, age four, at the Community Day picnic, told his mother in front of witnesses that he planned to marry Chris Madigan; perhaps for some other boy, who hadn't more or less come out of the womb trailing Wildean bon mots and glitter, this youthful indiscretion might've been treated as merely a hilarious anecdote about childhood adoration that everyone would, one day, tell his herds of traditionally-begotten children; but no one in the entire fucking county had every had any illusions that Eliot wasn't about one thousand percent serious, and it would have been nice, Eliot had thought resentfully, throughout all of high school, if somewhere after preschool Chris had lost his luminous beauty, his long eyelashes or his delicately arched eyebrows, or turned out to be short, or put on weight that his graceful frame couldn't wear well, or had had bad breath, or needed braces, but he hadn't; instead, he'd just grown into his model good looks and resounding heterosexuality for the express purpose of making Eliot, age seventeen, too disgusted by the asshole's stupid fucking good luck to jack off over him more than three or four times a day, even—even on the days when Chris teamed up with Nick to hassle him, just—just stupid stuff, really, bumping into him at lunch so he got ketchup on his jacket or emptying sandbags into his backpack or plastering the boys' locker room with a carefully-constructed printer-paper mosaic of a blown-up picture of Eliot, age nine, in too-big high heels and Maggie Adeline's Princess Leia costume from Halloween the year before, which Eliot knew—with perfect, agonizing clarity—that someone must've really _worked_ to actually document, since Eliot'd only made it through the first thirteen bars of Christina Aguilera's "Genie in a Bottle" at the annual Johnson County Fair Junior Division Talent Competition before his mom had recovered enough to shoot up to the stage to drag him off, hissing furiously about him lying to her. Eliot. Breathes in, feeling—shaky, unstable: the first edge of a threatening avalanche under Brian's caressing fingers where they are stroking through those lonely empty ice ages of winter after winter, kept—kept _apart_ from everyone, locked—locked outside: just close enough to—to look in at all the things he didn't have, like body-things that made noises at other body-things, that pumped their mouths and waved their appendages, so Eliot pumped their mouths and waved their appendages until they ran and ran and ran; or body-things that made warm things for other body-things so Eliot had made warm things, so many warm things! hot things! hotter things! the hottest things!! and then the body-things had made so many noises and had waved and pumped and waved and waved and _waved_ from inside the hottest things and the body-things that were outside the hottest things hadn't sat down and warmed their hands like they did at their puny little warm things, they had cowered around littler body-things or they had chased him pumping their mouths even though they were empty or they had run until other body-things had come with spells and hands and meat to put on their warm things so the smoke rose up as they asked—they begged—they called to—but Brian, Brian doesn't, Brian doesn't push and he doesn't run and he doesn't make sacrifices and he doesn't try to shove Eliot back into the box because instead he is—he is cupping—petting across the hot prickling sensation of Eliot burying, burying, burying his face against Daisy's warm fuzzy side while she thumped her tail and licked at the knees of his jeans as he held still-still-still at every sharp startling sound because if he—if he just—if they could be quiet enough that no one hears them that no one finds them that no one knows that they are hiding then no one will ask Eliot to explain the black eye, the scrapes on his hands or the bruises under his sweaters, all that—all that proof that he isn't—that he isn't what he's supposed to be, that he isn't ever going to be what he is supposed to be, the way he has always known that he isn't going to be what he was supposed to be, the way he can't be less loud, or less weird, or less smart, or less obvious; the way he trips over his feet at recess and doesn't have friends who aren't girls or animals or divorced tired-eyed music teachers who hand him their babies and tell him he can play their pianos for as long as he wants after school if he just helps them out on Saturdays; the way that sometimes toys go where he wants them and not where he puts them but when he tries to hit back he falls over: and Brian—Brian is just—he is lifting, honey-sweet, all—all these _bits_ of him: Logan Kinnear and Chris fucking Madigan and the gallery supervisor at the Grace K. Broomfield Student Art Contest calling his senior-year portfolio series _challenging_ and then _dark_ and then _not entirely appropriate, possibly, for a youth competition_ before she had excluded him from judging and Ora running—running from him and Danny fucking Holliday who'd smashed Eliot into lockers, who'd stolen his sketchbooks just for the pleasure of destroying them, who'd helped Chris hold Eliot down while Jack Swain'd crouched over him, gathering up a loogie to splat, shudderingly slow, down onto his face but Brian, Brian, _Brian_ is just—just a collection of warm fluttering tender hands that are cradling jagged shard after jagged slicing shard, not trying—not even trying to—to piece him back together or—or to sand down his edges, just—just _lifting_ out all his—pieces, all the pieces of him that had wanted that had wanted that had wanted that had wanted to—to dance all night with his whole body lit up so hot it'd glow, to put his mouth on—on anyone, to slide slithering down onto his knees, to tear Kenneth apart into little teeny tiny pieces so that he could _know_ all of him, to boost Quentin up by the hips in that windowseat in exile and screw the both of them out of thinking, to curl up like an armadillo as Victoria Wray had stood feet planted outside Room 214 (Mr. Gerber, Art and Art History) to explain to Eliot, very seriously, that she was just _worried_ about him, that it wasn't healthy, to be like he was, and he was always welcome to come with her to church because his family didn't go to church, did they, but she and her mom could pick him up on Sundays, he was just on the way, and church was really fun and healthy and positive and a great place to make friends and have support with all the hard parts of being a teenager like being positive and healthy and keeping to your purity pledges and making friends with fun helpful positive healthy people who could help him be less him and that would be better because then he wouldn't have such a hard time, you know, a hard time like how Tim and Scott and Bobby, who'd already given Victoria a promise ring, had dragged Eliot into the back of Nick Holliday's new pickup truck and gagged him and stolen his shirt and his jeans and his shoes and then duct-taped his wrists and ankles together and drawn—they'd drawn a—a heart, on him, they'd drawn a great big heart on Eliot's stomach and ribs with a coral-pink lipstick that Natalie had left behind in the bed of the truck and—and Eliot'd got—he'd—it'd happened when Scott was drawing—drawing the pointed part of the heart, on the bottom, dragging the lipstick down—down all the way to the edge of the waistband of Eliot's underpants and then— _under_ it while wild with panic Eliot had yelled and thrashed and tried—tried to—tried to call up that vast black bottomless well of—of whatever'd grabbed at—fucking Logan Kinnear but he couldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't _come_ to him and he was—he was getting—hard, wasn't he, and he couldn't stop it, he couldn't stop it, and they'd seen it, they'd known about it, so when they'd laughing dumped him in the middle of the Holliday field he'd already known it'd be all over school on Monday, even while he was curled up like a caterpillar, cringing, his dick jutting out of the fly of his boxers with his—with his wrists and his ankles bound, at three in the afternoon, mid-October, forty-seven degrees: and Eliot—if Eliot hadn't been—a starving fucking animal, if he hadn't—if he hadn't fucking—writhed or thrashed or screamed the motherfucking tape apart, or whatever the fuck he'd done, he doesn't even remember, he wouldn't've—he wouldn't've even gotten free, he wouldn't—he just would've lain there like—like he did on the glacier, he wouldn't have—he wouldn't've been able to—

—to ever _touch_ —

 _But you did_ , Brian is whispering. An ache, pulled down into him, all over. An ache, where he is brushing at the wet edges of Eliot's cheeks; _you got free, and you found me_ : and Eliot shudders all over, and presses his face against Brian's damp hair.

A moan. A low—a low just-escaping tangled moan, from—from Bobby. Fucking— _Bobby_ , who—who'd done that to Eliot and then—then turned around, and then—

—and then. Then he'd.

Then he hadn't even been trying, when he'd hurt Victoria.

Eliot opens his eyes.

Brian is looking up at him. Wet-cheeked. His hands on Eliot's face, cold. Cold like—like the ground.

And the air.

And the snow, piling up all around them, barely melting, on five heavy lumps of fast-cooling meat, and—

—and the other ones. Moaning.

And Eliot—Eliot just turns, looking toward Bobby, who is just—just coming free from the slow shuddering receding edges of the magic Eliot'd thrown out across them, his body vibrating all over, over and over: Bobby, who'd spent the last eight years on some serious nights and weekends screwing his way through the bourbon-soaked acrylic-nailed regulars at the Crowbar and undertipping and overtouching until they gave him a lifetime ban at the Classy Chassy; who'd been casual about condoms with the former and told everyone he'd done it with the latter and hadn't much cared about any of it until—until that awful, silent ride home from the doctor's, knowing—knowing it'd never be fixed and he couldn't undo it and now she'd never get what she wanted or forgive him for taking it from her; and he'd put the truck into park and followed Victoria into the pink-pink-pink over-hopeful sunny second bedroom and then dropped to the floor like a stone when she turned around and punched him. Eliot is peculiarly aware of Brian's soft warm blazing-bright touch, inside the pit of Eliot's hollow crawling body Brian's warm clever hands just stroking-stroking-stroking, but he still—he still can't—he still can't find the _bottom_ of it, can he? Just—just more and more and more and _more_ of them, Victoria's relentless self-satisfied proselytizing to fucking _help_ him and Bobby half-destroying him with what _Bobby_ had thought was a run-of-the-mill adolescent prank, and Eliot—Eliot can't—he can't find the edges of it, can he? Not even—not even when lifting a hand he feels Bobby's bound body smashing into granite, seizing; and then—then nothing, for a minute.

The field is quiet. The soft, dense kind of a quiet that always comes, doesn't it, with the snow: when Eliot lifts his face up to the little soft flurries dropping against his forehead, his cheeks, they feel like—like stars, almost. Little, and wondrous, and bright. His face is still sticky, because the blood can't really dry, in all this damp; and next to him, Brian is breathing. Breathing, breathing like it's a little bit of effort: and his hair is wet and stringy, from the snow. _I have to_ , Eliot is thinking—half-absently, oddly breathless—I have to bring him in out of the cold. Tim McEwan has stopped crying, finally. He's stopped crying, and breathing, and doing—doing all sorts of things, he's just—just lying there, tied up utterly still under the snow not—not being anything anymore, really, and—and the last of them, the last man, the one who—and it'd be—so easy, Eliot is thinking. It'd just be so easy, to let him go.

"I'm sorry," Eliot whispers. He feels very high and very far away: tethered, only, by Brian's hand, wound up with his hand. 

"What for?" Brian asks. Soft.

"For bringing you here," says Eliot.

"I'm not," Brian says, very low, "I'm _glad_ ": squeezing Eliot's hand as he is turning—turning towards him, with his burning dark eyes and his blood-spattered face and hair and too-big black jacket, reaching up to touch Eliot's throat, to push up onto his toes to kiss him: a warm opening-wet kiss that heats Eliot all the way down to his miserable coiled-up core, the dark-knotted pit of want and need and love and longing that is twisting tighter—tighter—tighter, as, very quietly, Brian tells him: "I would've done it, if you hadn't. I would've slaughtered every one of them."

And Eliot—

Eliot swallows, and lets go of Brian's hand. Touching—

"I have to," Eliot says, stroking cheek—throat—collarbone. "I just have to," Eliot explains, and then—then he takes—he takes two steps, three, four, and then crouches down in front of the last shivering man from the circle, holding—Eliot holding his hand out to, to press warmth against—against-into and—and Pete turns his face up, blinking, as Eliot touches his cold cheek. He can—he can feel Brian, still, tucked into that warm soft cozy cluttered space inside of him, rubbing his warmsoft magician's hands along each bit he is finding inside Eliot of Pete Asterly: the years and years of at best silent complicity in and at worst outright incitement of everything his friends had ever done to him, the teasing and the catcalls and the paint on Eliot's locker which had come after that afternoon upstairs in Eliot's quiet cluttered bedroom which had itself come after week after week after _week_ of that taut, complicated spark that Eliot'd started to feel whenever Pete looked at him: something—something that had felt not entirely unlike communion. Eliot brushes all the snow away from his hair and his shoulders and heats Pete up by fraction of a degree after fraction of a degree and tries not to think about how upstairs in his bedroom Pete had shivered and jerked up and kept his hands on Eliot's duvet because he'd probably thought it'd be gay to touch his hair; or about how red Pete had gotten, when he had gone down on Eliot, after: because inside him Brian is watching with a vast, oceanic kind of emotion, something that—that Eliot doesn't even have a name for: watching Pete sit down next to Eliot lying back shivering and chainsmoking on the playground roundabout, winter break, 2012, when Pete'd said, very low and very rough, _It's good to see you_ , but not managed to meet Eliot's eyes. They hadn't fucked. It would've been—too easy, almost: talking about the construction on the highway; the miserable weather; the relative dreadfulness of math and English GEs and Pete mentioning, shoulders hunched, hesitant, that he'd—he'd been out, a couple times, at school, which Eliot took to mean Pete was getting acquainted with whatever college-town Pennsylvania had to to offer someone with an iPhone and Grindr. In exchange, Eliot had said, _So, it was good for you too_ , bone-dry; and Pete had—

—Pete had laughed. Blue eyes crinkling up at the corners. Turning towards him, almost:

And Eliot had forgiven him. 

Somehow.

Eliot stands up. Stepping back, touching Brian's tense back, his cold cheek, the knotted-up back of his fisted-up hand; and then says, "Let's go."

"You're going to leave him," Brian says, voice—voice heavy, _heavy_ , heavy with— "You're just going to." Brian lifts his hands, waving; shaking his head. "Let him go."

Eliot hesitates. "He's not going to remember anything," he explains, finally. "He'll just—get up, in a minute, and go—"

"He nearly killed you," Brian says, voice flat, "he fucking—he nearly got you to—"

"But he didn't," Eliot says, very quietly, and stuffs his fists into his pockets. 

It's true. He didn't. Pete didn't, because Eliot—because Eliot had—Eliot'd gone home, and he'd opened the medicine cabinet, and he'd looked; and then—

—then he'd just—

—shut the door.

Brian is still staring at him. Eliot shrugs a little, helpless.

"It's not— _easy_ ," Eliot says, finally, "wanting things"; and then swallows. " _You_ know."

And Brian—Brian is just—just _staring_ at him, with that—that same vast, unbearable emotion, churning up from somewhere deep inside him, and Eliot—Eliot takes—it takes him ages, much longer than it ought to, to recognize, because it is—it's so warm and so soft and so lovely, so careful and cradling and possessive and tender that Eliot doesn't even understand that that is _rage_ , that is blind, boundless, burning-hot rage: that is rage that Brian feels _for_ him, that Brian feels _towards_ everyone else, that Brian really _would_ spread that rage out like a sea-wall between Eliot and anyone who—who would hurt him, who has hurt him, who might hurt him again: that that rage is something that _lives inside Brian_ , and that that Brian _means_ it; and Eliot doesn't—he doesn't understand that, he doesn't understand any of that, until Brian is stepping over to hold Pete by the hair, and then dragging the knife across his throat.

A very small, very precise corner of Eliot's mind registers:

  1. that Eliot's coatsleeves are too long on Brian and that there is a vast difference between arterial spray from three inches and from several feet and _fuck_ , Eliot is thinking, _that's_ never _going to come out_ ;
  2. that Brian is breathing very hard and very fast and his face is very red even before it hits him, and that his cheeks are shining-wet, eyes streaming—streaming— _streaming_ , over—over _nothing_ , over _Eliot_ ;
  3. that when Pete's blood splatters out it is the same sticky balloon-bright crimson as everyone else, _everyone else_ 's, which seems—wrong, somehow, for some reason; a very soft very clear tinkling alarm bell going off somewhere far, far, far away from—from Eliot;
  4. that Brian's form has improved, immensely, since—since—

—since—

  5. that Brian's back is hunched and his hands are shaking and he's crying, but he still got it done, didn't he? Eliot's—aching, no reason, because he's—he's still Eliot's—Eliot's perfect—his most beautiful—thing—
  6. that he still didn't get it, quite, did he; didn't swing quite hard enough didn't really cut deep enough; 
  7. that Brian has dropped the knife and is stumbling back and Pete is—bleeding, Eliot notes, most profoundly, but also— _breathing_ , that there is a wet gurgling-gasping noise as though he is breathing in blood and he won't, he won't survive that, _no one_ could survive that and Eliot knows that and he could—he should—he ought to—there are—things, he could—his hands, or—or the knife, or—or he could probably push time back but he doesn't because Brian is stumbling up against Eliot bloody and gasping with his face wet and his—hands and Eliot, Eliot has to, Eliot needs to—



—to take care of him because Brian is hunched up into a warm soft little ball that Eliot needs to cuddle close to his chest: a shivering sobbing, _sobbing_ mess: Brian is freezing cold and hurt and trembling and furious and he's probably never killed anyone before and he is crying so hard his breath is coming in these wet, lopsided sounds halfway between a moan and hyperventilation and Eliot, Eliot can't, he can't—his heart is thudding-thudding-thudding inside him with an odd lopsided— _ache_ —

"Shh." Eliot kisses his forehead, feeling—he doesn't know. "Shh, love. It's okay." He doesn't know. He doesn't know what he feels, when Brian—

"N-no," Brian manages, and then takes another drawn-sharp, strained gasping half-breath: "No—El—it isn't, it _isn't_ ,  it isn't okay, it's not, it's _not_ okay, he—"

Eliot squeezes him. Tight. His—heart—as Brian moans, "He _hurt_ you, and you'd—you'd just—you'd let anyone do it as long as they were just doing it to _you_ and he can't, I can't—I can't let him, I'll never let them, I can't stand it when things hurt you, I'll never, I'll never be able to," and then huddles up against him inside and out: reaching—reaching— _reaching_ for him; and Eliot—

—desperate, cold and achy and desperate Eliot reaches for him back.

 

 

 

                                                                                      a nd

 

 

 

su

   
                  m

     mer the la stdayofwai

waiting 

 

 

 

   
                        in the

                                                                   _sun_

   
                in sunlight 

 

   
                                                                                                ( in sunlight am )

have been sum—miting wa rmer iting —mer? so I am 

   
                            on the last d

t day of

   
                                                                      summer and i am holding you i am holding i am holding your name i am holding your name in the palm of my hand in the last day of summer as i wait for and

 

 

 

Idon'tknowIdon't know I didn'tknow I didn't _know_ , baby—

 

 

 

 

 

 

(— _ **late!**_ )

 

 

 

                                                                         but your name your name i hold

 

              your name and so i will wait in the sunlight for 

you, and

warmsoftlovecare hurt-agony snowcold but warm you're warm you're _warm_ I'm—warm with you and the snow is closing in everywhere around us with its blanketing-soft cold cocooning silence and—and the world might end, mightn't it? Just where it dissolves into white: and it wouldn't matter, would it? It wouldn't matter, with us—

—so. wrapped up, together, just—

"Baby," it says, very quietly; and Brian shivers, once, head to toe; and I press my face to your face my mouth to m-y mouth to my mouth my mind to your mind your hand to my heart and we.

And we—

—breathe us in.

Two skins.


	9. I'm something else when I see you

###  [9\. I'm something else when I see you [](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMhZ18EmlFA)[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

Eliot takes them to the motel.

He doesn't know why he does it, at first: the Wishing Well is one of those run-down, extremely of-its-time midcentury relics that still dot the highways and byways of the Midwest: he and Angela had stayed in about six just like it when he was helping her drive her car to the West Coast, and even if there is a part, a very small, oddly untalkative part, of Eliot that would approach the entire endeavor in the arch, knowing guise of a visiting anthropologist if he were with someone from Brakebills or Ibiza or Purchase, that is not how he is about it with Brian. Why would he be? Why _should_ he be? The motel is like all of Eliot in Indiana: battered and cheap and exactly the kind of not-quite-kitchy-enough retro that can't be anything but screamingly unfashionable, but the green-painted door to Room 2 comes open at a touch; and the lights flicker but come on when Eliot thinks at them, just as the heater is rumbling into action; so that Brian is already pushing up onto his toes and kissing him kissing him kissing him through the slaughterhouse smell all over his coat and their bodies while Eliot is still trying to get the door all the way closed behind them. Eliot had thought: _walls—heat—shower—towels_ ; and there are walls—heat—a shower—towels; but Brian is dropping their bag, unfastening Eliot's jacket, all the fussy hidden hooks and buttons that Fillorian tailors are all so fucking hard for, and with a sudden dizzying rush Eliot bends down remembering—remembering his hands full of—full of—as he'd squirmed and complained and squirmed some more and that'd been—but no, that hadn't— _happened_ , or—but—but he remembers, he _remembers_ it, that there'd been so many fucking—layers, on that fucking— _uniform_ —and Eliot's brain is churning like a fucking garbage disposal as he kisses Brian over and over and over and then—and then lifts up—lifts up his—his head, and—and Brian, wet-haired bloody-faced, looking up at him, comes unsteadily back into focus. And Eliot—

—Eliot realizes, very suddenly, why they're there.

 _Please_ , he is thinking. Hollowed out. _Oh—ohplease, just let me—_

 _Just let me_.

And before him: Brian's red-smeared wet face, which Eliot cups in his hands.

"Let me," he whispers, and then kisses him again, his mouth, his temple: "please, just let me—" reaching—reaching out as he helps Brian sit, unsteadily, on the edge of the plasticky bedspread, as a washcloth smacks warm and wet into the center of Eliot's hand. Brian's hands are trembling on his buttons: wiping at his face, Eliot asks him, "No magic this time, hm?" very gently; and Brian gives a little raw, exhausted little laugh. Under the coat his shirt is a little better, just stained at the collar and the cuffs of the sleeves, and peeling it off him Eliot just wipes the worst of the blood off Brian's throat and his hands, doesn't even bother trying for the edges of his nails or the ends of his hair. Brian is shivering, shivering, shivering when he lifts up his hips so Eliot can help him out of his jeans: when he's down to his pale prickling too-cold damp skin all over Eliot murmurs, "Get under the sheets, okay?"; and Brian makes another helpless trembling noise in answer but he does it, as Eliot crouches down by Ora's old traveling pack for their quilt.

"P-please," Brian says, reaching for him; and Eliot says, "Yeah, of course, love," spreading it out—out over him, shoving the awful crackly bedspread down onto the floor. 

Eliot wipes the worst of it off himself and strips down to slide in next to him, pulling Brian's whole cold shaking self against him, and Brian just reaches for him in a splashing little wave of bodymindmagic that Eliot has to pet—pet—pet, until Brian is just—just trembling clingingly against him, almost stilled. Huffing hot toofast little breaths. Brian's Brianness inside of him is a tense, exhausted-heavy knot: all that tangled-up miserable love and rage and grief: Eliot strokes his back, his sticky hair, his shoulders, the thick soft vermicular windings of his snarled-up hot heart: "It's okay," he whispers; and Brian sucks in a breath.

"No," Brian says. "No, _no_ , it's _not_ , they can't—they can't, _no one_ can hurt you like that," and then gasps, shuddering closer, as Eliot whispers, "Shh, of course not, you'll look after me, won't you?" and Brian presses their faces together, thinking so clearly that Eliot actually hears it: _I'm almost too tired to nod_.

So Eliot nods. Kissing—

—bending down to kiss.

Brian's throat.

"Can you—" Brian says, and then stops. Swallowing. "Can you just, I want—"

And Eliot can feel it, can't he? With Brian underneath him opening—opening up to him: that single first shattering memory, that bone-deep, earth-shaking sensation of—of _safety_. A soft, sudden revolution happening inside Brian _all over_ , curled up the wrong way around on Ben Harwood's white sofa with a stranger tucked up everywhere behind him and knowing, knowing, knowing down to his _atoms_ : _he will never, ever hurt me_. And Eliot—recoils, almost, remembering—bloodandrockandtworedsuns and the snow and the battered locked-up bashed-in chest inside him but Brian, Brian is—Brian is shaking his head, _touching_ him: his nose rubbing against Eliot's nose and his hand cupped around his cheek as all his little—tentacles—are just—just unwrapping themselves, aren't they? Aren't they. Trying to pull—to pull Eliot in. In against the bright warm sun that is—that is Eliot, somehow: kept in the center of Brian's entire aching world.

"Please," Brian breathes, into him, thinking—remembering—wanting Eliot above him, around him, inside him, wanting that same vast cataclysmic sensation of certainty: and Eliot breathes in deep, petting Brian's cheek and shoulders and belly and throat as Brian—shuffles—over, curling his back tight against the curving-cradling cup that Eliot would make of his body, as, blind and trembling, Eliot kisses the back of his neck, and casts the spell.

This close together Eliot couldn't ignore any part of Brian even if he wanted to: not the way he half-drops into sleep every third time he blinks or the shivery not-quite-ache of Eliot petting, very gently, inside him; not the part of Brian that is still feeling the knife in flashes: Pete's skin coming open; Eliot's. Brian can't—he can't even—he'll _be_ horrified, he knows, and sick and guilty and afraid, but all of those things feel—they feel so far away from him even though they shouldn't, they _shouldn't_ , baby—but _shh_ , all of Eliot's long caressing-petting thoughts are whispering, _it's all right, my love, I promise, it's going to be okay_. Brian's just. He's just so _tired_ , he just wants—he just wants—he just wants to feel Eliot locking into-around him like Brian is—is some hidden yet essential mechanical part: a—a gear, or a torque converter, or something: _a torque converter_ , Eliot echoes, disbelieving; as he is—as he is nudging himself against him alongside the soft ping-pong echoing sensation of their laughter. 

" _I_ don't know," Brian manages, huffing, " _I_ don't know, I've never even— _driven_ a car, I don't—"

 _No, of course you haven't_ , Eliot is thinking, almost desperate with fondness: tucking his cock into the warm spell-slick hot space of Brian's beloved body: "And I bet you used to go into your local bike shop and make helpless eyes at some hipster mechanic until he filled up your tires for you, didn't you"; and Eliot is filled with a vast, tidal wave of affection as he feels Brian flushing up all over, because that is one hundred percent what Brian used to do, isn't it, back in Seattle and Berkeley and Queens. Eliot kisses the crest of his shoulder, just—just shifting inside him, just enough to make them both shiver; and then Brian—

—Brian reaches back for him, scraping his fingers into the sticky tangle of Eliot's hair, whispering, "You can—"

You can. As Brian is—is arching—

Arching into him.

All over.

And Eliot—

There is a very stupid, very boring part of Eliot that is blathering on and on and on about _shouldn't_ and _oughtn't_ and _can't_ , but that part, that moronic part: when that part of him talks it has always sounded almost exactly like Victoria Wray Hemmings, and so all the other parts of him just watch it askance, tired and impatient; because this, this, _this_ : this actual, real moment in front of him is Brian asking for him with his mouth and his heart and his body and _this is it_ , Eliot is thinking, fluttering and vacant, _this is what you meant, isn't it_ , with the animal curling itself up warm against his back: because Eliot _wants_ to do it, he wants to slide his cock shiveringly-slow out of Brian's warm body and then—then just fit—just fit it back into him feeling Brian arch up trembling and urgent against him, beneath him, above him, Eliot _wants_ to fuck him, he wants to fuck him curled up in this warm soft little coil, in their bed back home and laid out in the meadows on Makaria, he wants Brian's thighs spread knees slipping on that windowseat in Antarctica and Brian's arms braced against the walls of the motel's flimsy cubicle shower, he wants Brian's whole body pushing up underneath him hands and knees to meet his every—hard—battering—thrust in the bed that Eliot had made for them in the shelter beside the river but just because Eliot _wants_ to do it doesn't mean he _shouldn't_ , does it? Does it. No matter what that pedantic little voice inside of them is telling him. Because _Brian_ wants it, Brian wants it and is asking for it and—and a part of him, a _part_ of him, a part of Brian _needs_ it, the part of him that's asking: even though he's so tired that his body feels floaty and disconnected separated out somewhere so far from desire that when Eliot cups his soft cock and kisses his neck Brian's skin prickles up half-uncomfortably all over, even while his mind and his heart and that thrumming-pulling core of him is thinking, _please. Please. Please_ : shuddering with relief. And Eliot's whole body is sparking, _sparkling_ , sputtering: feeling Brian's warmhottight body clenching around him as they are both shivering up together and Eliot—Eliot would just—if it were just Eliot in there, Eliot would—Eliot would've tucked Brian in under the quilt with his knees tucked close to his chest and his hands tucked under his cheek and told Brian, _no, shh, love, it's not good for you, you need—you need to sleep_ , and he would've—he would've watched Brian drop off buzzing half-discontented with that—that same yearning starving tail-lashing protective hunger and he would've, he would've, he would've just—just kept doing all the things he wants to do most like keep him safe and let him sleep and keep him warm and that wouldn't've been loving Brian at all. But Eliot _does_ love Brian, and that's—that's what it knew, wasn't it? With—with its teeth in his wrist and its big dumb silent animal eyes: it knew—it was knowing—it knew that Eliot wants to keep Brian warm and make him feel safe and fuck him in the shower and wrap him in quilts and lie him down in sunlight, weave him crowns of flowers, show him every wide and wondrous thing; that Eliot wants Brian to not—to not have to feel that awful sick, drowning grief that Brian feels when he thinks about everything that has ever happened to me, but—but I have to let him, don't I? Because of all the things that _Brian_ wants, for me. And—and it's—it's almost _unbearable_ , isn't it: realizing that—that that is what lives, isn't it, in that gap: knowing that sometimes it'll hurt him, won't it? and not knowing if I can stand it.

Knowing—

—knowing that to love him I'll have to let him do it anyway.

And Eliot—Eliot has to—he has to let himself sink into it, into that—the warm, slick, tangled-up immediacy of his body pressed uptoagainstinside Brian's body, his arm wrapped around Brian's fuzzy belly, the hot delirious longing crashing over-through Eliot in wave, after wave, after wave. When Eliot comes Brian makes a hot, wounded little sound, feeling it—feeling it _all over_ : the wet and then wet and then _wetter_ half-scraping slide of Eliot inside him and the echoing snapping _burst_ of Eliot's orgasm; the shuddering _rightness_ of it, of the way Eliot helpless shattered to pieces is clutching Brian back against him, curling—

—curling them both—

—up.

Brian tucks his foot back, hooked over Eliot's calves; and panting Eliot buries his face in his hair: sinking with him into him alongside him into a half-aware half-dreaming spongey space of stillness, where Brian—where Brian is—where Brian is just—existing, just perfectly inside himself, with Eliot. 

Just breathing.

Against the back of his neck.

Inside. Inside the drifting-soft scattered space of Brian half-sleeping Eliot feels—he can feel—he is feeling the clawing-dark hungry _thing_ inside him, that—the animal. He can _feel_ it, can't he, with all the edges of his mind full—full up of—of that sinking feather-bed sensation of—of lying down on the glacier, the way he had lain down on the glacier, after—after they had—they had driven him from every warm space in every warm world and it had—it had been—it had been unbearable. That gap. It had been—it'd been—that vast black pit inside him of all the things he could want forever and would never, ever have, it had been unbearable, _unbearable_ , so he had just—he had just—just stood there in the whirling snow stinging ice until—until he got. Until he got tired, and then he had put himself down on the ice in the cold that was so cold that was so excruciatingly painfully cold that it was almost like softness and he had closed his eyes and just—just _waited_ , just waited to—

—to go to sleep.

Lying down in the snow he hadn't—he hadn't had a name yet, had he? He hadn't had—anything. Had he. He had lain down in the cold muffling dark of the whirling howling storm and he had felt—stilled. Suspended. As though—as though the snow was slowly cooling all the parts of himself that were wrong, dangerous, broken, burning up: and when—when they were gone, what _was_ he? He wouldn't be anything, but that was all right, he didn't want to be, he could just stay there in the cold being nothing until the universe blew up and he wouldn't mind but then—then they'd found him, hadn't they? And they had put him in the Castle, where he couldn't— _hide_ : he remembers them saying to him. He wouldn't hide anymore, they would put him where he couldn't hide, as though that were what he'd meant to do, in the cold and the storm and the ice and the snow; he hadn't—he hadn't known anything about hiding, then, anymore than he'd had a name, but Ora—Ora had explained it to him, that it was like—that it was like playing, that it was a kind of a game: and oh, Ora, Ora, his lovely Ora: Ora who had taught him everything about almost everything, hadn't she? Starting. Starting when she had first stroked his cheek when he woke with his head on her knees and she had looked down at him with those big brown eyes and said, _you live with us, now, love_ , in that bright happy voice and he had been—he'd been—he'd just—he'd spent all those first few years stumbling around after her just—just like the animal, so—so disgustingly warm and needful and clumsy and—and wagging, _wagging_ for her, because he had been so so soso excited, after all those years in the ice and the fountains and the valley and the void and the darkness, to finally have a friend.

 _I didn't realize she was afraid of me_ , Eliot is thinking, sore and scattered and exhausted; as the animal. The animal, that big soft dumb mute thing inside him, is curling up warm in his lap. 

Licking, soft, at his fingers. And Eliot—

"Mm." Brian is rolling over, touching him: his face, his collarbone; blinking over at him with round sleepy-stunned brown eyes. "Hey. _Hey_ , no—hey, why're you sad, baby?"

Eliot shakes his head. "It's nothing," he whispers, thick, "it's—c'mere, okay?" and Brian  pets his cheek, his mouth, and then slides a warm arm around him, snuggling close.

"I think that works better when you're not, you know." Brian sighs, kissing him. "A little bit inside my brain, so—": and Eliot takes a breath.

Lets it out.

"I was so lonely," Eliot says, "before you saved me," and then closes his eyes. 

Brian brushes their mouths together. "I thought _you_ saved _me_ ," he is whispering. Soft. Soft. Opening—

And there is a memory, a slow, glowing bubble of memory and intention and thought, blooming in the dark cavernous sub-sub-basements of—of the body, of their body, of _Eliot's_ body: a little memory, a good one, a memory that isn't his memory but that comes from—from the valley, from the valley beside the river, from a sun-bright breezy afternoon lying out on the duvet after Brian had been practicing fighting with the knife that Eliot had found him, lying warm and bare and _warm_ in Eliot's  starving arms.

 _—at NYCB_ , Brian had been saying, _since—they, um. They still use these sets and costumes, you know, they were—uh, designed by Marc Chagall, so—_ : and while he'd just kept talking and talking Eliot had had stroked his hand through Brian's hair with that painful, affectionate wave of longing, because of course, of _course_ Brian would be exactly that kind of Level 99 Mansplaining Nerd, because—because Quentin had been, too.

 _I know_ , Eliot had said, finally: a mercy killing, _I saw it twice, with—_ ; and then he had forced himself to stop, because inside the memory there is another memory, a hidden memory: the memory of sitting shoulder to shoulder with her little warm boozy body tucked up against his, wearing—wearing something _spectacular_ , spangles all over and gold embroidery and gloves trimmed with what she'd been telling everyone was Teumessian fox fur, but which she'd actually just shoplifted from Mood, and they'd giggled helplessly over a _really_ inappropriate, like, quintuple-entendre they'd whisperingly constructed during the Game with the Golden Apples until this blue-haired woman had leaned halfway down the aisle to shush them and then they'd just held hands, squeezing every time they wanted to laugh again, all the way until the end of the Magic Carillon; and then he had leaned over and whispered to her—

—he'd whispered to her—

—and _She puts the monsters to sleep_ , Eliot had said to Brian, in the field, beside the river. _Brian. What does she—she dances the monsters to sleep, she puts the monsters to sleep, she—_ puts the.

The monsters.

To sleep.

And Brian—

—Brian had just—

—he had hesitated, hadn't he. There had been that long taut uncomfortable moment where Brian was still just—just curled up against him, not quite looking at him; and then Brian had.

He had just touched the tip of Eliot's nose, hadn't he. And he hadn't, quite, met his eyes.

 _—Oh_ , Eliot thinks: as it bursts bright and sharp and hot in his chest just like—just like the animal knew it would; and then, helpless, mad for him, halfway between laughing and exasperated, despairing: Eliot thinks, _oh, Gods,_ Brian—

"Kiss me," the animal whispers, while he half isn't paying attention; but Eliot—

—but then Eliot—

—just—

—he just wants to let him. He finds.

And he feels. He is feeling—feeling. Every inch of it: the animal's long arms long hands warm mouth and his—tongue, his tongue, which is Eliot's tongue, moving slow soft slow inside Brian's warm mouth, as Brian—

—as Brian _shivers_ —

—and the animal slides their arms around his back. Kissing—

—kissing him like the animal. Like the animal remembers. He remembers so much so—so _familiarly_ : those curling-up tense anxious hands on his face and his shoulders and his body, the thrumming warm arch of that square little solid chest pressing into his, that skin on his skin and those hands in his hair, that—that feeling, that impossible feeling, that sweet slow marshmallow-soft hot-yes-want-need-please _pulling_ feeling of—of that mouth, that mouth, of Brian's mouth before it was Brian's mouth and just—just the way it had always kissed him, kissed him, kissed him: like _claws_ , hooking down into the _heart_ of him and pulling-pulling-pulling, his cold aching half-dead half-just-waking body: that night that Quentin had lifted him out of that vast, bottomless well where he had been drowning in grief, just long enough for—for a breath. Just one more breath. Just enough to stay alive, just for another minute: and it'd—it'd _hurt_ , after. It'd been a sharp rough painful incessant little _rock_ , caught on the inside of his shoe, and Eliot—and Eliot had—and Eliot had spent so much time trying not to look at it that he'd barely noticed that it—that it was becoming—that it was turning into yet another thing that he found too irritating to ignore and too important to forget: that Quentin had kissed him, and that Quentin had kissed him _like that_ ; that Quentin had kissed him, and he'd _meant_ it; that Quentin's guilt and confusion over Alice hadn't—undone that, or—or erased it, and that Quentin—Quentin had never stopped turning up within arms' reach, had he? All the way from that moment until the next time he had kissed Eliot, so keyed up he'd been trembling, in Fillory. _You came for me_ , the animal is thinking, _you came for me at Brakebills, you came for me in Fillory_ : and Eliot—Eliot is—Eliot is slotting into it like the third note in the chord: _you came for me in the Castle_ , because that's it, isn't it? The bridge between them. The thing that makes it so that Eliot can—he can—he can almost unwind himself, every little desperate twining tendril and stem root and sticky-clinging pad, he can just—just let him—just leave him just enough room to be the hands on Brian's warm body, the thing that holds Brian in its lap: the thing that makes him know that the only thing in the entire vast measureless expanse of reality that could love Brian like he loves Brian is—

—is what he is going to leave behind.

Eliot breathes. Un—coiling. Uncoiling, before he—before he loses his nerve, just—just rising—

— _up_ —

But _Don't_ , it says, soft, catching at him. Pressing. Its forehead. Against Brian's warm throat: _you're—glowing_ , Brian is saying, somewhere—somewhere outside of them but "Don't," the animal is saying. With—with its hand.

Cupping.

The back of Eliot's.

Neck.

Such—such a strange sensation. Like the world, turned-around inside-out: like dangling upside-down from Kinuna's web, and looking at—looking at himself.

In a mirror.

Eliot—he can't answer. He _can't_ answer, can he? Because Henry Fogg will find them and Eliot—Eliot will have to—either Eliot will have to kill Fogg, or Fogg will have to kill Eliot, because Jack fucking Swain was _right_ , damn him: there isn't—there _isn't_ a way that this turns out all right, _really_ all right, not for the both of them: because Eliot—because Eliot has—because Eliot is—because Eliot gave Brian the knife and he taught him how to fight and he told—he _told_ him, he fucking _told_ him, even through the weight of the spell Eliot had told him everything he could tell him and shown him just where to strike, and Brian had understood him, hadn't he? Hadn't he. _Hadn't he_. And in the end, after all of that, what had Brian done? He had followed him, knife in his belt, to Indiana. And that is what Henry Fogg will find, isn't it: the love of Eliot's life, and a monster: so maybe—maybe Eliot _doesn't_ love him enough. He doesn't, does he? Because he just can't let Brian do it. He keeps—he keeps remembering Brian's wet face, his bare feet, that awful nine days curled up around him in the valley while Brian forgot and forgot and forgot and _what_ , Eliot wants to ask Eliot, _what would you have me do instead?_

In the soft electric-prickling silence as they pet up Brian's sides with Brian panting-arching writhing above them the animal is silent. It is—it is rubbing—it is rubbing their faces together with their whole body thrilling up into it as Brian is kissing—is kissing them both back and then forth allatonce and then one after another, their skin hot under their—scales and their tail, his tail, he is wanting to rub his tail all over Brian, just hoist him up and have him— _ride_ it, that hot desperate clinging solid body that—that just moves like that, that just arches like that, that  just _grabs_ at them like that that just makes—that makes them—that makes them both— _feel_ it, feel it down to the deepest most twisting flinching recoiling disbelieving unbearable bits of themselves, how badly he wants them: and they know, they _know_ , the both of them, don't they: half-something like laughing the one to the other, because he doesn't even know it, does he, but _Go—d—s_ , he's incredible, he's always—he's always been just— _incredible_ —and Eliot—Eliot can fucking _feel_ him: his teeth in their lip and the fluttering tremble of his eyelashes as panting he rubs all their faces together with his hands on—on their hips, on their cock, on their shoulders and their sides, on the jumping hypersensitive skin four inches down from their navel and their hair to tip up their chin: the way he calls them _baby_ and curls towards them in sleep and hugs them like there should be fucking—fucking _violins_ playing, the way he sits up in their lap with his mouth on their mouth and his whole body curving towards them like a wave of crashing water and that is—that is—that is what he is putting into it, isn't it. That—that long sinuous wave of Brian's frank, wholehearted yearning: the way he opens black blown-open dark eyes at them with his mouth red-rubbed and shining and then smiles, breathless open-mouthed and dimpling at the edges, they both—

—they both.

Just take that in.

Into the vast bottomless pit of nothingness inside them, where—

—where the sun that is being loved by him hasn't always lived.

The animal is sliding its arms around him. Trembling. _Eliot_ , Brian is gasping: writhing in their lap: "Don't," the animal is saying, " _don't_ , please, he _loves_ you," and Eliot kisses it warmwetopenmouthed with, with _tongue_ , the way he's never kissed anyone but Brian, just—just so that the animal, so that the animal won't, can't, isn't allowed to say it because Eliot is him and he is Eliot and Eliot knows he's going to say it:

—you could just stay, here, inside me.

After all. 

Who would notice?

but Eliot

 _I can't_ , he is thinking. _I_ won't _, sweetheart. I can't do that to either of you._

                                with

a gong

                ringing somewhere

                                                    inside of him.

and the animal is breathing in deep with something like—like fear, and _oh—no, love_ , as Eliot—Eliot tucks their faces together just for an instant feeling—feeling the kiss, that kiss, that wide-open last kiss echoing between them and through them and out from them and into Brian as El io  t

is reaching reaching rea ch ing for Brian

Brian's warm, clever cupping hands as "w—what," Brian is gasping, with those vast bottomless brown eyes, widening, "what are you—" and loving, loving, loving every part of him so fucking desperately,   E       l                                 i                                                          o                             t

 

is streaming out between them feeling—e       o

 

 

 

                                                          as tangling golden-sticky and wet with his hands his long lovely hands Gods his hands i lo  E   i           ve y      o                                        u                                                     t

 

 

 

 

 

is shivering don't it says , " _Don't_ —" says                                the ani m el I ot "don't," gasping, " _fuck_ , you don't—you don't _have_ to, I—"

 

 

 

 

 

as                                                                                                      E

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                              l

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
                                                                              o

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"No," Brian is gasping, his—  
                                                                                              — _hands_ , his— " _no_ —

 

   
                   _empty lovely warm_

 

 

 

                                                                —"

 

 

 

 

 

                      i

   
                                                                          ( _—baby—_ )

 

arms closing on 

 

 

                                            nothing through the light and the mist and " _no_ ," like gears grinding

   
                — _no_ ," his lovely hotwet face—scrunchingup— "no, nonono," as his hands grasp on nothing, _nothing_ : "no, no, no—no—" gold still streaming up—up everywhere, everywhere around them, pouring—pouring out and out and _out_ choking-hot until it is empty as over and over and over Brian is sobbing, "No, no, _no_ —no—baby— _Eliot_ —": until what is left of it, hollow, presses its face to Brian's burning-up tear-soaked face as " _Please_ ," Brian gasps through the mist and the 

 

light and, "no— _God_ , please— _please_ —"

—and trembling. Trembling. Trembling, it—the shell. The shell of him, cradling—he cups Brian's head. His wet cheeks, hot eyes, wanting to kiss his twisted-up agonized mouth as he holds him, holds him, _holds_ him, —

   
                                      — _nothing_ —

—nothing else to offer.

A pounding inside of him, like the battering echo in the heart of a drum.

"No," Brian gasps, "ohplease— _please_ , n— _please_ —"

"Brian," Eliot whispers; and Brian moans, _moans_ , sobbing: an agonized, animalian howl— "Oh—Br—." _Oh_ : Eliot is thinking; and: _oh, God. Oh, God,_ Quentin. "Brian," he whispers instead, feeling it like a knife, the knife, Fen's moonstone knife, shoved right back into the middle of his guts: "Brian—love—"; and Brian shudders all over, curling their bodies together.

Gasping.

Gasping for breath.

"You," Brian says, "B—": and then he laughs, raw and tight and terrible. "No. God. _Fuck_ ," he gasps, agonized: "You're _Eliot_ , aren't you, you're—you're not—you're _his_ E-E—"

Eliot. Swallows. "I'm," he says, and then swallows. "I'm Eliot," he says, helplessly; and pets his knuckles down, very soft, over Brian's hot face.

Brian gasps. Gasps: another agonized-tight half-vocalized inhale; and helpless, _helpless_ —

"No," Brian gasps, shuddering, "oh— _God_ —"

—Eliot.

Eliot kisses.

His cheek.

And above him sitting trembling in his lap, Brian—

Brian just—

—blinks down at him. With those—those big, brown eyes.

The room isn't, exactly, quiet. The heater makes an odd, lopsided kind of thud every few seconds; and their breathing, their breath is so fucking loud, even with the snow outside, muffling everything. Eliot can feel his own pulse, hammering in his chest, in his throat, in his hands, just trembling in the air bare millimeters from where Brian's pulse would be hammering _back_ — 

"I'm not him," Brian tells him, unsteady, "I'm not—": and then spine curling hunches down: his mouth opening on Eliot's mouth in a hot, desperate kiss, his hands coming to—to cling at Eliot's— "I'm not— _him_ ," Brian moans; and grabbing at his—Brian's sides, his back, his cheeks, his shoulders, Eliot shakes his head and shakes his head and shakes his head.

"I'm not," Brian says, "I'm not, I'm— _not_ —"

—and "I know," Eliot says, unsteady, "I could always tell you apart": and then he kisses Brian with his mouth filled up with the entire sick-unsteady grieving whole of his heart—

—and Brian—Brian is—is pushing, is pushing them both down into the nest of the cheap scratchy motel sheets and their quilt and he is—he is tangling up their legs, their knees their sweaty thighs and still-wet bellies as he is grabbing at Eliot's wrist, pushing— _pushing_ at him: _baby_ , Eliot is thinking, so he whispers, "—love—" and Brian's throat tears open again, another one of those low, agonized moans that turns into another, into another, into another, until he is sobbing so hard his shoulders are shaking as he—as he is—as he is doing the spell, the spell, the inadequate fucking _spell_ : the twist and the drag and the openingpalm and his hand wettening between them, touching—touching Eliot's half-limp exhausted wet cock and then dragging his slick fingers instead to Eliot's crabbed and hollow cupped hand, his trembling knuckles: Brian smearing their skins together as he looks up at him eyes streaming with his face crumpled up and soaked flushed-red streaked with snot as gasping—gasping— _gasping_ he pets the unsatisfying half-slickness of the Westheimer 139 that no Eliot had ever taught him all—all over the sides Eliot's fingers, and his—palm, and his thumb as "Shh," Eliot is whispering. Swallowing, sore all over, as he kisses him again: again. Again, petting— "shh, Brian—" _baby_ —

"What does he call you?" Brian whispers, "please," eyes welling up all over, "please, tell me, _please_ ": reaching up to wipe at Eliot's wet face as soft, unsteady, petting down over him, Eliot. 

Eliot tells him. Doesn't he. 

"El, mostly," he says, rough; and then swallows. "And," he manages. Somehow. "And—sweetheart, sometimes": as half-gasping Brian shivers up underneath him.

"Sweetheart," Brian whimpers, and then— "s-sweetheart," voice thick, "please—sweetheart, _please_ , just—" and barely—barely able to even keep himself breathing, Eliot presses his three slickwet fingers just—just inside.

Brian moans. Arching.

Eliot swallows. "Bri—"

"Quentin," Brian gasps; and Eliot. Can't, he _can't_ , he— "Please," Brian says, unsteady, sliding— "please, El—please just—" with his knee—

—sliding up Eliot's side and Eliot, Eliot feels, Eliot feels like like he is being _carved open_ , laid out again on the floor in the Mouseion archives with his wrists pinned and his ankles while the Monster crouches over him with the knife in one hand and his other sharpened in talons and that—that soft, odd, heartbreakingly innocent half-childlike face.

"Quentin," Eliot whispers, finally, "Q—"; while Brian twists his whole body up sweat-sticky against him, moaning out into his mouth. Reaching down to—to pet at—the hotwet puffy overtouched seam between his skin and Eliot's while Eliot shivers, curling—curling his fingers—into Brian's warm body.

"More," Brian whispers, "please—please, El—"

"Yeah," Eliot whispers, "yeah, just let—" and he casts it again, clumsy, right-handed, getting wetter, while heart pounding and trembling Brian presses kiss after kiss to his cheek, his temple, his jaw. "Let me just—pillow?" Eliot asks, and then nuzzles up under Brian's jaw when Brian arches, twisting up for one: Eliot tucks it—up under him, helping him—up, _up_ feeling—feeling battered, all over, impossibly tender about him, this beautiful brown-eyed unstranger, the only—the only person who knows what is inside him. The only person. In the world. "Quentin, love," Eliot whispers, and then presses his mouth down to Brian's, petting intointointointo him, three-fingered, slick and hot and so, so _close_ to him while Brian's expression is split, cracked wide, tears streaming down his face as he fucks himself down onto Eliot's fingers gasping, " _sweetheart_ —", with come drying stickily all over him and blood still crusted along the edges of his hair.

"Yeah," Eliot whispers: nonsense, really. But he is—he's just—and Brian's mouth is screwed up, aching, as he wipes at Eliot's hot face and Eliot presses their mouths together and opens, opens, opens: he opens as Brian opens is opening his mouthonhismouth and his arching-wet familiar opening body, and Eliot—

—Eliot feels—

—Eliot is still—

— _wrapped around_ it, isn't he? Every ounce of that impossible, bottomless longing and tenderness: that onyx-black well, tucked somewhere deep inside him: and Eliot shivers and whispers, "I can feel it": and Brian—moans—?: halfway to a question: and Eliot worries his teeth just into the edge of Brian's soft bottom lip as Brian scrapes his fingertips down through Eliot's chest hair as "it's still," Eliot is explaining, "inside me—everything—everything he want-s, from you, everything—" Pressing. Pressing their faces together, still—still fucking— "everything," says Eliot: _starving_ : "everything _I_ want—from you—Quentin—" _gasping_ heartthrobbing wet-sick in his chest as he is realizing—

"El—" Brian is panting out, squirm—ing _arching_ pressing—his knees up over Eliot's shoulders and it is real it is real it's _real_ , it's still—he's still— "m-more," Brian is begging, "please, _please_ —sw— _El_ —"

—and heart twisting in his chest Eliot twists to kiss the sweat-soaked side of Brian's fuzzy right knee and just—and just—just pushes—

—pushes—

—half his aching throbbing hand—

—into him. All the way to the ridge of his knuckles, with—

—Brian curled up beneath him making a noise that—it's—unreal, it feels unreal, it feels—so wholly and entirely his own: that whole-body wanting shudder with every part of him falling open and Eliot—Eliot has—Eliot has, has been inside this body so many parts of this body so many _versions_ of body, so many versions of _this person_ , but he hasn't, he is realizing, feeling—staggered by it, flattened, exploded: he hasn't ever, quite, done this, just exactly this, with this one. "Hey," Eliot whispers, nudging—nudging Brian up, just a little, curling him—upclose to Eliot''s opening mouth and his tongue and his fluttering hot heart as—as he kisses—chest tight Eliot is whispering, "Quentin," meaning _baby_ ; "c'mere, love," meaning _Brian_ ; and Brian is shaking all over red-faced with tears still leaking down his cheeks and so Eliot kisses him and kisses him and kisses him and then whispers, "Oh, shh, love, I just want to kiss you, can I—" and Brian is gasping, "Please—anything, please, I need—please, sweetheart, _please_ —" with his hot crabbed aching hands yanking perfectly just a little too hard on Eliot's hair and his body, _his_ body, that moves—that only—that really only moves like his body, that isn't—that Eliot hasn't ever really, quite, mistaken for anyone else's body: but Eliot—but Eliot _likes_ this body, he is realizing, over and over and over again, with an odd, unstable surge of feeling: he _likes_ this body and he likes _Brian_ : he's liked Brian for—for ages, for weeks, for _weeks_ , hasn't he? and heart pounding Eliot is just—just rubbing, just as deep as Brian likes, just as hard as Brian likes, the whole knotted-thick root of his hand just as—as thick as Brian likes, with all Eliot's—yearning fingers, pushing past the slick-hot rim of Brian's body while panting Brian is dragging at Eliot's hair actually hard enough to hurt and if _Eliot_ had been a bicycle mechanic in Queens or Berkeley or Seattle, he would've been fucking _thrilled for the opportunity_ to help Brian fill up his tires, because Brian—because Brian is—because Brian is sweet and open and beautiful and clever and _hot_ , he's—he is fucking _disastrously_ hot: the kind of five-star eager-wet fuck that most people can barely even _dream_ of meeting and God, _God_ , Eliot is just—suffused with it, drenched for him, like—like there is a spring, somewhere deep inside him, a river welling up running over its edges remembering— "You," Eliot says, and then—then he laughs, wildly inappropriate: and then heart pounding he kisses him over and over and over— _helpless_ —to make up for it because under him Brian is tensing up bow-tight with his brows scrunching together and so frantic Eliot kisses them—right, left, right—as he explains, "I'm not—I just, ah, God, you—in, in the Mouseion," Eliot is trying to explain, and then kissing him again, as Brian's shoulders are hunching up underneath him:

"It wasn't funny," Brian is saying, his voice—jumping up— "it isn't—"

"Oh, no, God, I'm not laughing at you, Christ—hey, c'mere, just—just come up here, okay?" Eliot says, "Come here, please—love—": with shaking fingers petting Brian's cheek, his bottom lip, his lovely collarbones, his throat which is breathing in as Eliot is gasping out, " _God_ , b—please," bending over him to kiss Brian's mouth back into a taut, wounded sort of quiet with his knees tight over Eliot's aching shoulders: "I wouldn't, I'm not—laughing at you, I swear, I just," and then slides down—down— _down_ — "Ah—" Brian gasps, grabbing onto Eliot's hair, "f- _fuck_ —" to kiss the rest of him back into shouting. Part of Eliot thinks: _Quentin—_ ; and then crushes it, ruthless: his tongue on _Brian's_ skin, inside _Brian's_ body, and it's _Brian_ who fucking _needs_ him right now, isn't it? Brian's voice still tear-thick and clogged as it is rising and falling and crashing over and over and over again as he pulls Eliot's hair scrabbling his heels on Eliot's back his voice juddering and scraping and cracking right down the middle until at the end he is just making shuddering noise after shuddering noise somewhere between yearning and, and _pain_ , his whole body locked up in a knot as he drags at Eliot's skull shoving his ass against Eliot's mouth while dizzy and shivering Eliot whining-panting-reworking, reworking, reworking the spell one-handed so that when he at last needs to stop to gulp for breath after breath he can slide up quick and fluid and fit all his wet fingers back into Brian's hot sweat-drenched arching body, bending Brian fully in half so that Eliot can kiss him again mouth to mouth tongue to tongue which Brian just moans into, arches up for, and "Apology," Eliot breathes, "accepted?" trembling-fluttering, stroking his fingers into him, God, he could just— _sink_ , curling— _up_ , and "You," Brian manages, barely, between kisses, "you are _such a cock_ —" and half-laughing feeling desperate and shaky Eliot gasps, "I—love, I can't, you just—you got me to telepathically fuck you with, _hey, what about just_ —just the tip—" and Brian—Brian's eyes, his eyes, his _eyes_ are welling-up wet and painful but he's still laughing, isn't he: clogged and heavy and wet but he laughs and kisses Eliot laughing as Brian's voice rips and tears and Eliot, Eliot has to, Eliot can't, with Brian petting frantic at his wet streaming eyes and his— and—and   _God_ : Eliot's mouth moving, hollow, as Brian is licking up into him: the both of them trembling all over as Eliot gasps, " _God_ — _Brian_ —" 

And Brian.

Goes still.

Still and taut underneath him, his mouth on Eliot's mouth, his body wethottight around Eliot's fingers; and when, feeling odd—lopsided—hot, Eliot at manages to lift up his head, Brian is looking up at him, eyes wide and wet, still leaking—

—but his face.

Eliot's heart thuds.

Thuds.

His lovely—

—and then Brian says, very deliberately, "—Eliot."

And Eliot.

Looking down at him. Unmoving, barely—barely able to manage the hot huffing uneven overeager throb—of his breath, as Brian—

—as Brian leans—

—just leans up, justbarely, they're so close, he's so close to him, they're so close together sanded down stripped bare all over both breathing hard but barely moving and Brian, Brian's _let_ him, Brian has let E-Eliot put—put his hands all over him and his b-body and his—tongue—and Eliot, Eliot's still got half his hand tucked inside him where Brian is hot and tight and w-wanting—

—wanting—

—and Brian. Tips his chin up—

—justbrushing their mouths together like a bomb at the base of Eliot's brainstem with Brian's hands going right-sharp tight-tightening in Eliot's filthy hair as Eliot—as Eliot is—is just—just stroking-soft into the hotwet silky insides of him again as Brian makes a little high airless noise as Eliot is kissing him over and over, his whole body expanding out on that same shuddering vast wave of that endless nameless golden sensation while hungry eyes open fucking up against him Brian scrapes his heels across the baresticky plane of Eliot's back, which is prickling, because it's still like nothing, _nothing_ that he has ever felt before, Brian looking up at him like that: vast and uncontainable, merciless, _devastating_ ; and _oh, fucking hell_ , Eliot is thinking, dizzy, as the wall behind him explodes: _I am going to love you until the day that I die_.


	10. eke me out—make me last—

###  [10\. eke me out—make me last— [](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QopxSTtJbj8)[♫](https://anonym.to?https://open.spotify.com/playlist/683z4TpXT7vdirDe48D3No)]

"Fuck!" Brian is gasping, half—

—half-kicking free half writhing away as Eliot is yanking the quilt up over him, crouching in front of him, hand— _God_ —his hands out, throwing up—

—a weak crackling shield-spell that disintegrates more or less immediately and is followed by Fogg taking a step further into the room with Lipson and, and _Alice_ behind him—which is just—

"He's gone, he's gone!" Eliot is shouting, trying to—to pull something, _anything_ , up between them, God, Brian, _get down_ — "Alice, he's gone, the Monster's—gone, but I still—" flinching and then shoving the both of them over the far edge of the bed and yanking it up onto its side as a weak-tea shield against another concussive impact as back pinning the mattress upright against the edge of the bedframe, Eliot shoves Brian down flat to the scratchy filthy carpet shouting, "—he's gone—I remember—we found the Alexandria Cell!"

—and then.

Silence.

After a minute, Alice calls, "...Eliot?"; and Eliot drops his head back against the mattress, which wobbles, and breathless manages, "You took your sweet fucking time."

Slowly, Brian is lifting his head up, only just. Clutching the edge of the quilt to his chest, wide-eyed: Eliot touches his cheek. Tucks a strand of his hair back, gentle. 

"Mr. Waugh," Fogg says; and Eliot scrubs the heels of his palms across his own eyelids, and then wipes his hands off on the quilt. 

"If you're going to try and brainwash us again, we'll show you _everything_ he taught us," Eliot says, looking up: and it's—it's almost entirely a bluff, he thinks: but Brian is still propping himself up onto his hip, isn't he. Reaching up to the nightstand for his knife.

"We brought the counteragent," Lipson calls, and then, more quietly, "no, stop it, Henry, it was a bad idea last winter and we _both_ saw that field, it'd be fucking _Darwinic_ to do it again now—do you want a towel or something?" she asks, leaning around the edge of the flipped-up unsteady mattress, and then crouching down as she is casting that complicated diagnostic spell from Rester and Exley that Quentin had spent about nine years trying to reconstruct from memory; and hadn't ever got, really, completely right. Brian is still holding the knife up, trembling; his body tucked in the pocket between Eliot and the nightstand and the mattress and the wall: "You _did_ get the spell off yourself," Lipson is saying to Eliot, half-surprised, half-distracted: "why didn't you just do the same thing to Quentin?"

"Well, we did have to cut it out of about four of my internal organs with no anesthesia and a magical knife," Eliot says, "And—yeah, a towel would be great."

Lipson looks over her shoulder, making a fast, impatient little gesture; then turns back to Eliot.

"Is he... himself?" Fogg is asking, from the other side of the wall of the mattress.

"I mean, are any of us, really?" Lipson asks, "but sure, yeah, close enough," as her gaze slides over Eliot's shoulder, to Brian.

His heart a thicksharp clench Eliot holds his arm up. Blocking her. "Stop," Eliot says, very flat, "You're not going to do anything to him he doesn't want you to do"; and then when she blinks at him: "You're _not_ ," Eliot says, "non-negotiable. You're going to _ask_ , which I know isn't exactly Brakebills' strong suit but if he doesn't want you to do it—"

—and Brian.

Just touches.

The back of Eliot's neck.

Quiet, Brian says, "It's okay, El": just as Alice comes into view around the edge of the mattress, red all over, not—not looking anyone in the eye, as she passes down a single scratchy, worn-out hotel towel, and then darts back away, out of sight.

So Eliot—

—Eliot just turns. Taking. Taking the knife from Brian when Brian holds it out, setting it up on the nightstand where no one will step on it, helping Brian hunched over red-faced on his knees get the towel wrapped around his hips and then helping him stand up, still smeared with—with more things that Eliot wants to think about in any context involving Lipson, and Fogg, and _Alice_ , and then Eliot pushes the mattress back over onto the bed, so that Brian has a place to sit down, while Lipson doses him.

"Could I get a towel, too?" Eliot asks Alice, because—because he could get it himself, he _should_ be _able_ to call it to himself, but right now he feels like an entire ocean run dry; and holding their old handmade quilt in front of his dick while come-soaked and bloody in the presence of two of his professors and _Alice fucking Quinn_ is a new low, even for him. When she ducks back into the bathroom, Eliot grabs for his boxers, wriggling them on under the quilt just as quick as he can, trying not to look at Dean Fogg's crossed arms or judgemental expression: "You found the Alexandria Cell," Fogg is saying, voice flat.

"Yeah," Eliot says, "it's all sort of—there's this place, inside—well, it's not _inside_ Fillory, but you can _get_ there from Fillory, I sort of—that's not how he did it but he _knew_ how to do it, and I remember, I think." He takes a breath. "No. I remember. I know I remember. I—fuck. Focus, right? So—focusing: the Library isn't _the_ Library, it's more like—the Library's newer, shinier branch, more accessible branch, where the services are better and the staff is less actively antagonistic—"

" _Less_ actively antagonistic?" Fogg says, sharp.

"Yeah, I didn't exactly say this would be easy," Eliot points out. "But—he called it the Mouseion, it was—"

"The first Museum," Fogg says. "The original home of the Library of Alexandria."

"Yeah," Eliot says, "and there was—a schism, centuries ago, over—um, organizational systems, actually, it was basically a flame war about card catalogues, and ever since then, the—the Sophistai have been at war with the Library." He takes a breath. "Librarian against librarian, scholar against scholar," he says. "Someone should write an opera."

Fogg frowns at him, shifting, silent; so turning his back to him Eliot just grabs for the damp cold filthy washcloth on the nightstand and scrubs it down over himself as hard and as quickly as he can stand it and then looks up, to where Lipson is bending over the bed next to—next to Quentin, who is sitting hunched up at the edge of the mattress, not— _looking_ , as Lipson repeats the spell from Rester and Exley.

"And they have the Alexandria Cell," Fogg says, slowly.

"Yeah," Eliot says, and then clears his throat. "Locked up in their basement, behind about twenty-five layers of wards keyed to a bloodline spell, and—along with information that the Library doesn't even know to _dream_ of, but if—if I had a, a plan, sort of," which is—bullshit, but. He takes a breath. "If I thought—if I thought that there might be something we could do, to get the Library off our backs, to—if there was something we could do with. With what I know."

Under him, the mattress dips, slightly, shifting. "With what we know," Quentin says, quietly; and Eliot turns to look at him: sitting up with his spine hunched and his knees tucked up on the mattress—sideways, because of the towel, because he's—always been shy, a little, hasn't he, except—except with—and Quentin, with his brown brown eyes and his hiding dimples and his shoulders prickling up with goosebumps in the cold and the twisted-up downturned curve of his mouth is looking back at Eliot, as Quentin says, "What we remember"; and Eliot thinks:

_—oh_.

Airless. Hollow.

"I'm not working with the Library, ever," Quentin says; and then looks back to Fogg. "Frankly, I'm not thrilled about the idea of working with you, either, but—"

He stops. Shrugs. Very quietly, he says, "But if that's what it'll take to get you to take the spell off the others."

The—

Lipson is straightening. "Well," she says, "that's about all I can do—it'll take a day or two, for you to start feeling a little more normal—drink lots of water, eat small frequent meals, avoid hallucinogens as much as possible—I left my macchiato in the car, so," she says, and flicks up the fur-lined hood of her jacket, and then heads—then heads out through the—the wall, the _wall_ , what there is instead of the wall, just a shifting-clinging dark spell barrier tossed up over the gaping gash in the building where the wall used to be and, and Eliot

"Whatever your inclinations may be to make me the villain of the piece," Fogg is saying, to Quentin, "Professor Lipson has already administered the counteragent to all but one of your companions"; and Eliot

Alice comes back. With a towel: which she holds out to Eliot, not. Not looking at him. Her eyes are red and puffy. "Towel," she says, and then shifts, her face rabbitish and twisting: Eliot can practically hear her hissing to herself: _unnecessary!_ ; and El iot

"Thanks," he says. Taking—taking it from her. Why did why did he want her to 

"All but one?" Quentin is asking;

"Mr. Hoberman is still considering his options," Fogg replies; 

and Eliot is looking up at Alice at her twisted up pointy face and her huge glasses and her unflattering puffer jacket, and Eliot asks, "Is she,"

and then

stops.

Alice is quiet, for a breath. "She's at Brakebills," she says, finally. Quiet. "They're all—still coming out of it, getting." She sighs. "Getting their feet under them, I guess, and—she wanted to come with us, but. But we thought—they're okay, Eliot. She's okay": and all at once surging up in him that black, sinking wave—

—and Eliot buries his face in his hands.

Quentin's. Touch. His hand, coming warm and solid to splay, gentle, against the back of Eliot's ribs.

"Thank you," Eliot says, thick, "God, _thank_ you, Alice—Christ—"; and then the dam inside of him crumples like tissue-paper, against the battering tsunami of, of fear, and rage, and grief, as Eliot—

"Can you give us, like, twenty minutes?" Quentin asks. Hand sliding up to squeeze at the back of Eliot's neck, as Eliot—as Eliot tries to—

"Q," Alice starts.

"Please," Quentin says. "I'm fine, we're fine, please, just let us—give us a bit, okay? Just. Twenty minutes."

—and Eliot can't—: that ragged, animal sound tearing out of him, helpless; and Fogg says, "Of course, you'll want to get dressed—Alice": as Alice says, "Yeah. Okay. We—if you need—"

"Twenty minutes," Quentin repeats.

"We've got a rental car," Alice says, "we're trying not to—because the Library can track—um, portals, you know, and—"; and Fogg murmurs, "Ms. Quinn," as Quentin is saying, "We'll find you. Please, just. Twenty minutes, okay?"; and Eliot—Eliot barely, he barely understands, doesn't hear if they leave does—n't around the howling white wall of the storm surging up inside of him, shoving his hands hard to his mouth and his mouth and his _mouth_ as Quentin pulls him back, pressing his face down into Eliot's hair with his arms coming tight and hot and familiar around him rocking rocking rocking as he murmurs, "Shh, it's okay, they're gone, El, it's okay, we're okay."

" _Q_ ": El gasps; and then shudders. Hotthicksurging up out of him, searing the insides of his eyeballs and the underside of his tongue as Quentin kisses his skull, rocking, rocking, and whispers, "It's okay. We're okay. It's okay."

"No," Eliot gasps, "it isn't": the vivid-red heap of the boy in the Neitherlands—the men in the field—Tim— _Noah_ —Pete—oh, God, _Pete_ : Pete. Pete. "Fuck," Eliot manages, " _Quentin_ —" tongue thick in his mouth: and Quentin tips Eliot's chin up, and kisses him.

Warm. Sweet. _Familiar_ —

And helpless, Eliot wraps his shaking arms around Quentin's warm waist.

"We're okay," Quentin says, very quietly; Eliot shudders, breathing in deep; and Quentin kisses him again. It's—gross, humiliating, honestly: Quentin's mouth open on his mouth for the first time in a year and all Eliot can taste is—salt, snot—

"God," he gasps; but Quentin just kisses him again. Wet. Eliot sucks in a deep, unsteady breath, and Quentin kisses him over and over until Eliot—until Eliot—until Eliot is breathing in when he breathes in and breathing out when he breathes out; and Quentin brushes their mouths together, once, then presses his skin to Eliot's. Forehead to forehead. Blinking at him in that shadowy too-close blurred way that Eliot would know—anywhere, _anywhere_ , he is thinking, resounding down to his bones, _agonizing_ ; because he didn't. 

Quentin cups his cheek, and Eliot.

Breathes.

"Come shower with me," Quentin says, quiet, "we're—a mess. Just. Come wash off with me. Okay?"

Eliot can't say anything to that.

Quentin runs the water full hot. The fixtures are old, mineral-stained, and they rattle; but the water heats up fast enough, filling the dingy little bathroom with steam. Quentin steps in first and then holds a hand out to help Eliot in after him, and Eliot—goes. Helpless. Ducks his head under the water when Quentin holds up the little bottle of two-in-one shampoo. Bends his knees a little, after a second, so that Quentin doesn't have to reach quite so much. It all—came back, didn't it? ... _Didn't_ it? Because this feels like it ought to be familiar, but—the river was different, it was different, or—or the hot spring in the valley, where they—he. He's never actually taken a shower with Quentin.

Quentin is quiet while he washes Eliot's hair, Eliot's back, Eliot's still faintly-marked abdomen and his armpits and his crotch: it's. Bizarre, honestly, in its familiarity: the same achingly gentle, casual intimacy with which Quentin had touched him when Eliot'd thrown out his back the last time they tried to do the roof on their own and spent the next four weeks barely able to move: Quentin helping him use the chamber pot and giving him sponge baths and massages in the least sexy way imaginable, because that was just what you did, wasn't it? When you were growing old with someone, and they needed you. The thought makes a hot, guilty ache rise up in his throat, while Quentin is crouched down scrubbing soap over Eliot's hairy calves: when Quentin stands up again, Eliot says, "Hey. Let me do your hair, okay?"; and then—prickles, agonized, aching all over, as Quentin pushes up onto his tiptoes to kiss him: soft, closed-mouthed, tasting faintly metallic like the water; before he ducks his head under the spray.

Eliot.

Reaches for the shampoo bottle.

A minute later, Quentin says, "You know," with his head bent forward, while Eliot is still working the suds out of the back of his hair. "I, um." Quentin laughs, a very little. "I have—Brian had—this really clear memory of going to see the Firebird Suite. At the City Ballet."

Eliot—catches himself. His hands stilled, on the back of Quentin's warm skull. He clears his throat. "Did he?" he asks. It's been—a year, almost. Longer.

"No," Quentin says. "I mean—well, no, he didn't. It would've been—uh, 2013, I think? 2014? Pretty soon after he came to New York, anyway, but he—"

Quentin stops. Shrugs.

"But Brian didn't exist, in 2013," Eliot says, very quietly.

"No, he didn't," Quentin says. "But I still remember it." He takes a breath. "And I also—I remember seeing it with—," he says, "but—that didn't happen, either, did it. Not—not to me." He rubs at his face. "Before the Mouseion," Quentin says, "before—all of this, you'd just— _told_ me about it," very quietly, "you, and."

He doesn't finish.

Eliot swallows, and turns, in the cramped little cubby of the shower, to set the shampoo on the ledge of the soap dish; and Quentin wraps his arms around Eliot's middle. Pressing his face to Eliot's back.

"It's okay, El," he says, quiet; and Eliot stares up at the low dim shadowed corner of the ceiling, and says, "No. It isn't."

He is thinking—he is remembering—that wall. That wall, that tight slapped-together brick wall that he'd—that he'd tried to—hiding, hiding everything he could behind it, every thing, every one, frantic burying every last memory he could with the last shaking bits of himself—

—every memory, except one.

"He knew you," Eliot explains, thick, "he, he remembered you and I wanted you and—and I, I couldn't, I _couldn't_ , I—"; and then shivers. "I remembered you and he wanted you and I couldn't," he tries, helpless, "I couldn't—I didn't want—I didn't want to go after anyone else as long as I—as long as I could _keep_ you, so I—"

"I know," Quentin says, very quietly; and nuzzles the nape of Eliot's neck. "I _know_ , sweetheart."

_God_. Gasping, Eliot swallows, and then shakes his head. "I _threw_ you to him," he says, agonized; and Quentin tightens his arms around Eliot's middle and whispers, "You kept me alive."

Quentin kisses his shoulder. "Do you remember," he asks, "in the pocket world. Teaching me to use the knife."

Eliot takes a breath. "Mostly—not," he admits.

"Yeah," Quentin says, quiet, "but you still did it"; squeezing Eliot's fingers.

Tight.

"I remember—so much, Eliot," Quentin says, very quietly, "there's so much— _stuff_ inside me, stuff that I—that Brian remembered, that Brian knew, that Brian cared about, he—he went to see 'Firebird' because of his whole—art— _thing_ , you know, but—I knew the stories, too, I'd." Quentin sighs, hot on Eliot's skin. "I—he'd done so much work with folklore and fairytale," he says. "He had to, to write about Sendak. So he—he walked in knowing the original firebird motif, which—which _I_ didn't know about, which _you_ —because, because the firebird isn't the phoenix. Not exactly. The firebird incites stories, it—it _signals_ a quest and it _is_ a quest, this sign of coming transformation, this—magical lure that tempts men into danger—this terrible, unpossessable prize. But—I mean, Brian knew all that, but didn't know, going in, did he, that in the ballet, she's—something else, too, isn't she? Maybe she does tempt Ivan into danger, but then—then she leads him free."

Eliot swallows, throat thick. "She enchants the monsters into sleep," he says, finally.

"And she leads Ivan to the heart of the actual villain," Quentin says, very quietly. "She—she's the one who destroys Koschei, really, isn't she? And she—she doesn't actually _have_ to do any of that, why—why _should_ she, it's—not particularly in her interest, is it? She's not trying to free herself, or her girlfriend, or steal his shit. She's—a bird. She's outside of them. And Ivan spared her, sure, but who was he to decide whether she lived or died, so it was hardly some great act of moral charity, was it, and anyway, she's _magic_ , she's _miles_ above them, the princesses, Ivan, she's—entirely something else, isn't she, but—but she does it anyway. She helps him. She helps them. She saves them all from Koschei the Deathless, because she felt like she owed it to Ivan. Because it was right." He takes a breath. "But Ivan would _never_ have defeated Koschei without her," Quentin whispers, "without her, it'd just—it'd just be, _Local Idiot Goes Into Forest, Dies Horribly_ —and there you were in the valley showing me magic tricks and and brushing my hair and teaching me to fight with a fucking _god-killing knife_ , over and over and over, and you had no reason to do it, Eliot, you _didn't_ , not when you were— _him_ , not when you were _like that_ , but there you were, anyway. Just. Doing it, over and over and over. Just putting the monsters to sleep"; and Eliot leans forward, heart pounding, and presses his burning face to the tile.

"It wasn't—it was _you_ ," he whispers; and Quentin says, very gently, "No offense, baby, but you're full of shit."

And Eliot.

Shivers.

"Eliot." Quentin kisses his shoulder, and then stays there. Unmoving. "I—Brian was obsessed with Kossoff and Auerbach." His voice a little muffled, in Eliot's skin. "He had—he liked—theater, and music, and _art_ , he interned at SF Moma in college and worked on the theater sets in high school, he lost his virginity to the Fleet fucking Foxes, he liked—clever guys, guys who were—a little mean, sometimes, maybe, but not cold, not _ever_ cold with him, he liked guys who were bigger than him, and—and could've, you know, pushed him around a little but then didn't, and he—I had a really tawdry history of being a total slut for a boy in a waistcoat— _Eliot_. I was in love with you for my entire fucking life, and I'd never even _met_ you. I—he didn't regret it, I don't regret it, _I don't regret it_ , Eliot"; and Eliot.

Swallows. 

Wrapping his arm over Quentin's. Their hands tangling up, squeezing: Eliot's throat going tight.

"I missed you," Eliot says, half-turning, "so much."

Quentin lifts his head up. Pushing his wet hair off his face.

Brian's face.

Quentin rests his chin against Eliot's shoulderblade. Looking at him.

"I didn't regret it," Quentin says. "He didn't, either." He reaches up, to brush his fingertips along Eliot's cheek. "I don't regret it," Quentin says, very quietly; and then takes a breath, as Eliot turns, shuffling, to properly face him. "I fell in love with you," Quentin says, and then swallows, resting his hands resting against Eliot's hips. "I fell in love with—all of you," Quentin confesses, with his forehead is scrunching together, the corners of his eyes tight. "And I'd say that was awful of me," he says, "but—I can't, I _won't_ , El, I won't, because it wasn't."

Eliot touches. Very gently. His cheek.

And then bends down, aching, to kiss Quentin's warm lips.

Quentin loops his arms up over Eliot's shoulders. "You came for me in New York," he says, in Brian's the low, familiar rough rhythm; Eliot shivers. "No," says Quentin. " _Listen_ to me, sweetheart. You came for me in New York. You took me out of my dull flat boring magicless life. You took me home and you kept me warm and you made me feel safe, for the first time in my life, you showed me fireworks, you took me to paradise, you laid down with me in a world full of flowers; you showed me a painted city, inlaid with jewels and fifty stories high; you took me to _the Library of Alexandria_ ; you armed me with the only weapon in the world that had a fair shot of killing you and you showed me how to use it and all the while, the _entire fucking time_ , with a monster living inside you, a monster the _gods_ were afraid of, you protected me, you took care of me, you loved me, you loved me so hard you taught _it_ to love me— _Eliot_ ": and shivering under the shower spray, Eliot pulls Quentin tight to his chest.

"I hurt—," Eliot says, and then takes a deep, shuddering breath, "I didn't—I know you'd never—but I let _Brian_ do it, didn't I, I fucking—"

Quentin tips his chin up. "Baby." Kisses Eliot's throat. "I _am_ Brian," he says, very low; and Eliot closes his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Eliot whispers; and Quentin sighs. Pulling back.

"I'm the last person in the world to think I could just—talk someone out of wracking personal guilt," he says, "but—but remember this, please, _please_ : you did everything in your power to protect us, and it _worked_. You kept us alive." He takes a deep, slow breath, and adds, very quietly, "And"; and Eliot—

—Eliot can't. He can't look at him.

"Listen to me," Quentin says, gentle. "I'm alive. You're alive. And—and she's at Brakebills. She's okay." 

"Because," Eliot says, "because instead of going after her, I sent him after you."

Quentin touches Eliot's throat. His cheek. Eliot—Eliot can barely see him through the steam and the—the scalding-hot sea spilling out of him as Quentin is leaning up to kiss him: with his lovely furrowed brows, his big blurring brown eyes: wiping his knuckles, very gently, across Eliot's hot, wet face. 

"You were trying to save us, and you _did_ ," Quentin says, very low, "we're all still breathing": and Eliot—

—Eliot takes a—

—he tries to—to speak, to—to apologize, again—again—: " _Fuck_ , Q," he gasps, just barely managing a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know how you can even _look_ at me, I just—"

Quentin kisses his jaw, soft. "Don't you?" he asks, very deliberately, a little too loud; and then—

—and then he tucks his face in against Eliot's aching throat.

And Eliot.

He takes a breath. Because Quentin's so—so _warm_. So warm, and familiar, and beautifully soft in all the ways that he isn't lovely-stubborn-solid, still a little sweaty-smelling past the fruity tang of the terrible hotel shampoo and their harsh cheap over-chemical soap and he is—

—sliding. Sliding his wet arms, loose, around the vast empty cavern of Eliot's malformed, prickling waist.

The shower is sputtering down against them. It's hot, still, mostly; but not up to an Indiana snowstorm, not with only three real walls and a spell barrier and an ancient, malfunctive heater between them and it and even against the steam Eliot can still feel the cold seeping in around them, the cold creeping anticipation of the sharp-prickling smack of the air that will be waiting for them just outside the shower, but Quentin is a warm, compact little presence pressed close-tight everywhere against him, still. Still smelling right, somehow, when Eliot breathes in deep.

"You did it," Quentin says. "Please don't forget that." Muffled. "You kept us alive," he says, and then inhales: and then—gently, half-hesitating—Quentin says, "and you kept Margo safe": and shuddering all over Eliot closes his eyes. 

Quentin locks his hands together, behind Eliot's back. Breathing in. Breathing out: hot, where his face is tucked in against Eliot's throat. 

Rough, Eliot asks, "And—the rest of it."

"All that other shit," Quentin says, very quietly, "we can worry about tomorrow."

His arms still looped around Eliot. Just—

—just holding onto him. Still.

Still warm, breathing out.

Breathing _in_ —

"Okay," Eliot manages, finally. "Okay, baby"; and Quentin lifts his face—once— _sweet_ : and then lets go of Eliot's back just long enough to turn off the shower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

### (end notes)

[...presented here, and not in the end notes field, because of character limits.]

So first off, by way of explanatory research/content footnotes: this story is just _filled_ with stuff I don't know actually anything about! I don't know much about dance; I know very little about ancient Greece and even less about Ancient Greek; I'm not an artist or an art historian, like, _at all_ ; and I've also never been in a knife fight, my apologies, but—

—but!!

First off, like Eliot and Brian, I _am_ very interested in several of the artists who get lumped together as the School of London, which [was/is a very loosely affiliated group of painters based in London late 20th century who did a lot of figurative artwork, which was not the prevailing trend elsewhere in art at the time](https://anonym.to/?https://www.phaidon.com/agenda/art/articles/2016/august/02/a-movement-in-a-moment-school-of-london/). I think that of the painters in this group, Frank Auerbach and Leon Kossoff are not the best known, but they happen to be two of my favorite artists, full stop. They also were/are close friends and artistic colleagues, and Auerbach did, in fact, paint Kossoff, several times—the painting whose print I've given to Eliot to put on his wall at Brakebills was [this one from 1954](https://anonym.to/?https://www.tate.org.uk/sites/default/files/styles/width-480/public/leonkossoff.jpg). As far as I know there's no, like, ~official~ connection between Kossoff's artwork and Maurice Sendak's illustrations, but I feel a certain kind of kinship that surfaces every now and again in—especially—their depictions of faces (I think you can probably see this the most strongly when it comes to, say, looking at some of Kossoff's [portraits](https://anonym.to/?http://www.annelyjudafineart.co.uk/artists/leon-kossoff) alongside Sendak's [illustrations for Melville's _Pierre_](https://anonym.to/?https://www.brainpickings.org/2014/08/21/maurice-sendak-pierre-herman-melville/), a book that will come up again later, in the final/central part of this epic). 

On the other side of the art in this story: Marc Chagall was a twentieth century artist working in a very different style from the artists above; he did a lot of highly fantastical, symbolic multimedia work, particularly paintings, in addition to his (I think better-known?) [stained-glass windows](https://anonym.to/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bz2mioCp-M0). Chagall also collaborated extensively with artists working in performance media, particularly music and dance; Chagall did the costume and set design for a [1945 Balanchine production of Stravinsky's Firebird Suite](https://anonym.to/?https://www.pointemagazine.com/marc-chagall-ballet-costumes-2498578907.html), a production which was later revised and updated in 1970 and is still performed at [the New York City Ballet](https://anonym.to/?https://www.nycballet.com/ballets/f/firebird.aspx). Like most of the artists whose work figures largely in this story, Chagall was Jewish, as well as an immigrant and a refugee fleeing first oppression in his native Russia and later Nazi-occupied France; for a _number_ of meta reasons, I am unwilling to call the preponderance of work by Jewish artists in this story a coincidence, though it is proooooobably more of a conscious textual connection for me than it is for the characters. I am also perfectly willing to admit a level of selection bias, here, namely that my family is Jewish and I have a lot of feelings about twentieth century Jewish art. 

On the ballet front, I have seen the Firebird Suite, but it was a) on... video? PBS? b) like 30 years ago, when I was Quite Wee, and also c) not actually that specific Chagall/Balanchine/NYCB production, so there were a lot of places in this where I was kind of winging it (hurr) with help from the NYCB website, [this detailed synopsis](https://anonym.to/?http://www.theballetbag.com/2009/05/08/the-firebird/), and YouTube.

Much like the above selections from _[Modern Jackass Magazine](https://anonym.to/?https://www.thisamericanlife.org/293/a-little-bit-of-knowledge)_ 's most recent issue on "Art!!," I am about as far from a scholar of Ancient Greek as it's possible to be, so I used Wiktionary and [Perseus](https://anonym.to/http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph) heavily in figuring out how to transliterate/romanize the historical/pseudo-historical/semi-mythological elements in this story. Obviously I enjoy paddling about in the gaps between _The Magicians_ canon and the historical/mythological record; I feel like, in this context, it's pretty acceptable to dice and mash and slice such things as necessary to make the story go, but apologies for anything that I just got outright wrong. I am only an egg, &c, and I welcome factual/translation corrections by [email](mailto:greywash@gmail.com).

Most Earth-places mentioned in this either by name or extremely specific physical description (Whiteland Elementary School, the Wishing Well, and the Classy Chassy outside Indianapolis; Golden Gardens and the downtown public library in Seattle; The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) are real, though my fictional abuse of them in this story should be in no way construed as a statement about the real places themselves.

Okay! Content footnotes over! If you like the songs on the [soundtrack](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17080115?view_full_work=true#work_endnotes), I highly encourage you to financially support the artists by hitting up a show or paying them for their music directly, if you are able; in the meanwhile, they should be getting paid a few pennies every time you stream it somewhere official (and I have done my best to keep the links official).

Many thanks to everyone who read and commented and kudosed at me while I was frantically trying to get this out before Season 4; I almost never reply to comments in comments because I am bad at conversing with humans, but I can assure you that I found them extremely delicious. The comments. Not the humans. I also would be remiss if I didn't thank [**lbmisscharlie**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie) for a reference consult whose fruits will actually turn up much more extensively in the main story in this universe, though I........... handwaved my way around a nontrivial segment of the very good information she gave me. *scuffs toe* And, as always, my love and undying gratitude to [**breathedout**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout), who, in addition to reading/betaing huge chunks of this on very short notice and still managing to catch missing words and extraneous commas and also have thoughts about things like "theme" and "character development" and "narrative construction," has not only _consumed a fantasy media source_ for me (very much _not_ her bag) but also spent the past several months gallantly enduring my near-daily attacks of standing in the middle of our apartment, yelling about my feelings about Eliot Waugh. For this universe, I already owe her, I believe, about $45 worth of apology cocktails—babe, let's hit the town.

**Author's Note:**

> ### Playlist
> 
>   * _Epigraph_ : [St. Vincent, "Los Ageless"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9TlaYxoOO8)
> 

>   1. [Spoon, "Can I Sit Next to You"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_yJYNF_Qas)
>   2. [Tei Shi, "Bassically"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A17rVbNTtrg)
>   3. [Troye Sivan, "Bite"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLuWMOF6vOU)
>   4. [The Cave Singers, "Outer Realms"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBawf7-NqtI)
>   5. [Sleater-Kinney, "A New Wave"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kc1htX3q-F0)
>   6. [Perfume Genius, "Run Me Through"](https://anonym.to?https://soundcloud.com/perfumegenius/run-me-through)
>   7. [Jungle, "Mama Oh No"](https://anonym.to?https://soundcloud.com/jungle-8/mama-oh-no)
>   8. [Iron and Wine, "Your Fake Name is Good Enough For Me"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkBf6OEAlws)
>   9. [Hozier, "It Will Come Back"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMhZ18EmlFA)
>   10. [Marika Hackman, "Itchy Teeth"](https://anonym.to?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QopxSTtJbj8)
> 

> 
>  
> 
> [This fic's public announcement pages elsewhere: [Dreamwidth](https://greywash.dreamwidth.org/57395.html) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/454434) | grudgingly, [Tumblr](https://greywash.tumblr.com/post/182250783302/complete-fic-firebird-the-magicians-the)]


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